Hyper-Berceuse: 3 A.M.

Imagine all the debris of space
The countless trade names
   Jugurtha            Tuolumne         Chert-Farms
Some of these belong to you
Can you tell which ones
Each has its own sequence of microtones
Together they make up a kind of tune
Your tune
The ceiling and walls are star maps
Breathing, alive
Those aren’t stars, darling
That’s your nervous system
Nanna didn’t take you to planetariums like this
Go on, touch
Lovely, isn’t it
Like phosphorus on Thule Lake
Sweet summer midnights
Shimmery, like applause under the skin
Can you make it out
Almost a hiss
An old shellac LP of white noise
Playing in the distance
Foolish, troublesome boy
That hapless adventuring of yours
Be very still
Now you can hear it

August Kleinzahler


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