blackbird online journal spring 2002 vol.1 no. 1

POETRY

HUGH STEINBERG

Sleepy

                                    The beds, the bedding
                                           and the need of rest.
                         The ground was tough, knotty
                                                              with weeds.
                Say it was all connected, hard to break:
                               a book and the closing sky,
                                                       somebody in love.
    She said these people
                      who love, they loose their names—
                                        we follow them around,
       we follow them around.
                      A key gets turned when we sleep.
          We are locked between the
                                         stale earth and the sky.
   The key turns the lock between you
                and you, the key turns the ground,
the ground is set each successive hour of the day.
                                                        I tell her we
                                  could see if something else
                        keeps us together,
                                    keeps me from stumbling.
                                                     To move; I move
                           like I was swaying.
                                    Like I was not made of this body.
                                               I was made of grass and
                                                           the ground belongs to me I
                              can give it up I tell her I want
                                    what I want I want to rise
                                               I want up even if
           I'm clacked and broken.
                   I want to go home in knots.
                           I want to wake up
                                         all worn out
                                                        beside you. 


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