Sleeps" by: Sam Fuerstman
The blaring silence of night breaks the air,
Midnight-sounds of dumpsters, and sirens.
Her body's slumber rises and repeats,
Her hair scattered cross the pillow,
Like the serpentine limbs of a weeping willow.
Her tiny ear peaking and hearing the pleas,
Of harmonious tones of my jangling of keys.
Inside her mind something is flying,
Something is whisping her body in flight.
Her back is smooth, her bosom sighing,
Her life depends on the decisions of night.
Her eyes closed, Her hips wide and abrupt,
Stopping at her ribs, looking perfectly uncorrupt,
Her "lower east side" so perfect and tight,
Rising as she breathes the cool air of night.
This room is so cramped,
I can't see to write,
These words that appear in the absence of light
From the morning window a peek of bright
The sun clocks in, bidding bye to the night
And I write and write and write and write.
Observing her every breath,
Fighting with all might.
Please don't lose her, Don't lose sight,
Let her be lovely, Let her love you
She's breathing, and dreaming,
That everything's alright.
The distant sound of a lonely car horn
Our crazy love to which I'll forever be sworn,
From our past lovers, we shall be torn,
But with this crazy new love,
We at once are reborn.
She's sleeping through this madness of life.
She resembles an angel,
Not wingless and wistful,
Not hopeful and painful,
Not absolute like shapes,
Nor circles, nor curves, nor geometrical angles.
But our staring at my life and laughing as it dangles.
She's sleeping as we make a mockery of life
Telling it to damn itself,
While wrestling with what's right,
So thank God for the peaceful brightness of night
And thank God for saying, "Let there be light..."
'Cause I am alive and I now have love,
For I've been a vulture,
When I should've been a dove.
And I have fought battles that I knew nothing of,
But now I am sure that there's someone above,
While she sleeps.
March 9th Lower Eastside Manhattan