Stumbling to light

New York, Night

In New York, nights are nights again,
instead of the drugged-out sedated state of perfectly sleepful nights
back home. What love you
dosed me with, Mom. The hours
pass--they don't disappear--
tiredness plays
a role--the shadows of my
eyes sleeping in however not
don't miss out on the blues
to grays changing to light,
that give windowpanes shape,
eventually wake.

So many know inside: the young body
is such perfect vehicle for
pain, so isn't it a shame
wasting away in effortless preservation?
So many know INSIDE, but
so many within so many
don't just know, because the
concept--instinct--is so
counter-logical to understanding
that not even an energy
is spent on deliberating
the flickering grain of truth.

As oft said before in so
many words varied: to sleep, wake!,
I say, as the second gust
winds down from the city skies, breaking the building top, through
the windpipe and into the
studio's window to blow open the
flimsy door, a second time as I sit on the bowl of this toilet.