Out of the blue,
grey, or whatever colour
in which you find yourself
beginning to lose yourself,
sleep will approach you,
always a stranger,
no matter how many times
you have met before.
It is prepared to take hold
of your ankle,
with a hand that rises
out of an asphalt lake.
Alternatively, it might kindly
seize your wrist,
like that wealthy blood relative
with whom you are not yet acquainted,
the one who says:
"Enough of this!
Before you can go any further
you must first recover.
Quick! Hop on board
my private train."
Sometimes you will go
without resistance,
buying into a sure bet
where every ticket
at least wins a pillow.
Sometimes you will be more reluctant:
When you notice the crows
alighting from the street lamps,
you will fall through the closing door
as the train is pulling away.
But sometimes you will not be so sure.
You will find yourself admiring flowers
through the window of a closed shop,
or persuading yourself that you can hear
a symphony being performed
just a few blocks away,
only to end up
back on the platform,
alone, and writing
on foolscap in your head
a lemon juice letter
to the sleeping station master,
hoping to ruin his day.
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