I Long to Hear

I Long to Hear

Sleep I do not fear, acquainted with its tow that
sucks me below consciousness. Sleep is the safest place
I’ve found, night or day, no matter the sounds around my
ears. Only my back can wake me sure with its electrical slice.

I miss the day, I miss the hours, I miss the walks, I miss the
daffodils peeking from warmspring dirt more faithful than
my recent attentions to duty.

I do not want to write another dirge, and would be happy
to interpret birdsongs as salutes to the sun; dogbarks as
percussive dances with the windchimes. Dots like rain,
underline the day; green like clover, sings the refrain;
sapphire skies complete the chorus,
but my days remain porous, holding each circuit within
spongy combs. Everything new has been done
and nothing wakes me to see what no one
has seen before.

One occasion in a million, and I talk to a friend,
still 18 in my faulty memory, when neither has seen
our sagging faces for 30 years or more. I do not recognize
even my own.

My dog still would romp, and I simply shuffle, leaving
shavings from my sneakers in wandering lines upon the asphalt path.

I cry, rarely tears, I used them up a year ago; but still
I cry, fairly often, between dozing and praying that
sleep would leave. But having been shoved out the door,
sleep leaves pain in its wake, and I want to go to
sleep once more where pain cannot reach me;
where trust and dreams speak
the language I long to hear upon awaking.