by Stephen Gibson

This is what men do when they can not sleep:
They sit and write poems to you through the night,
Or they wander the alleyways saying your name to the universe,
Over and over again, rehearsing your name like the answer
To a question they want to be asked.
They do this again and again so that your name becomes
Foreign in their mouths.
Repeating it so often to the storefront windows
And to the blue lightning pulsing in the clouds,
Your name becomes strange,
Use has made it
Unfamiliar. Still, they search the city
All night long thinking they will run into you
At every corner and through the black … Continue Reading