The night is old as sand. Underneath lie cities
where people sang ballads, passed platters of oysters
and frescoed the loggia. Our nerves are twanging strings.
Sleep like a dredger scrapes the room where our feet stare
and sift new positions. Wall, chair, bed edge. Coffee?
the nurse asks. Water? Sleep detests a vigil.
Sleep yearns for things that sink, that burrow down. The sand
is old but strong enough to keep the morning out.