Even if
I were there, Homer, praying
on raw
knees to cow faced Hera or the bitch
Aphrodite,
I’d still be praying just for sleep
to seep
down from its hustling chariot,
sleep
which is grey and dark grey
and
suddenly alive, and still I wouldn’t understand,
not even
if I were back on this pavement
where
it’s wet on some days and sometimes it shines,
why you
wouldn’t want it, up late smoking and
shaking
and scared of sleep because
it
brings the next day closer, like she was
and I
was drowsing, glorious lover that I am
and the
warmth of her tears on my fingers
was
calming.
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