Thus I woke too soon and too late at once to a gray afternoon through which I rushed bleary-eyed, stubbing toes and standing agape before the open refrigerator door having, to all appearances, forgotten what orange juice was. The leaden day fell on me like the rain and hail that fell on me later when I went to the store. Now the breaking clouds are shot with pink and patches of pale blue sky are fading, and the drops of water clinging to bare twigs wink out one by one. The late dusk hangs in the air like yesterday's hazy thoughts in my mind. All I want is more sleep.
Sunday Verse
Serenade
by Kevin Young
I wake to the cracked plate
of moon being thrown
across the room—
that'll fix me
for trying sleep.
Lately even night
has left me—
now even the machine
that makes the rain
has stopped sending
the sun away.
It is late,
or early, depending—
who's to say.
Who's to name
these ragged stars, this
light that waters
down the insomniac dark
before I down
it myself.
Sleep, I swear
there's no one else—
raise me up
in the near-night
& set me like
a tin toy to work,
clanking in the bare
broken bright.
