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.