Sleep is difficult—not the act,
the thing, the fact of being severed.
Sleep rests like the lot beneath
the window with its latent touchy
car alarms, though all night
it’s a curled animal without movement
or sense. Hours accrue
without us in them even though
we are, the way we’re in outer space
without knowing it and the earth
seen from the moon lies down in the dark.
Once, the moon was flawless, smooth
as a newborn’s brain, ice water
pooled in a cave in the woods.
Then Galileo opened his mouth:
clenched stutter of a nail pried loose.
We opened ours too, hungry eaglets
whose nests speckle the cliff-face.”
Tim Ross, from “Fugue”