A horse
_           _ goes clock clock
on the green tiles.
_           _ Words
press my forearm:
_            rolltop chrysanthemums_ . . .
What a kindness
_           _ of the old library mind
to open its books
_           _ and let me borrow
all night.
_           _Another time rougher,
the librarian
_           _cuffs me to stay awake
as long as it takes
_           _to hush the hearsay
of the dark.
_           _I’m whipped with a bit of grapevine.
When I again lie back
_           _my hair is cold
against my neck.
_           _Slept-on messages have their fevers.
Don’t go away don’t go away
_           _plain      aloud     unwritten.
In time they release the bough of my drowse,
_           _set out in freedom,
slip past my eyes.
_           _That’s why words in dreams
need binding,
_           _folding in covers,
why they pine for cloth, tree, leather.
_           _Authors make books out of insomnia.
Pamphleteers sleep best.
_           Me?  A few clear pages.
No, less.  Two lines.  And I believe in them:
_           Illegal sun vote,
walnut loon.