A Time For Sleep

There's time
to sleep. For now,
I write, my words,
a flock of gulls diving
down, synchronized,
one behind the other.

Now, I climb
the ladder up
into the stars
whose eyes plucked out,
bleeding light, have
never seen their own
silvered, gorgeous bodies.

Night, where all
things certain of,
at least, a tenuous
existence, the world
expanding like blackened
clouds, claims the dead,
the soundless, the painless.

Need I mention
the darkened road
whose answer, like
an open question, like
love, it falls asleep,
weary, cold and vanishes.

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