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 [...]]]> 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 light
Of every night club.
But they have missed the point.
They do not understand what it means to have the heart’s dreaming
Ripped from the heart’s muscle
And then to have the heart shot off this planet.
If only they could have your name back they would remember
The taste of a sadness, the sensation
Of this longing.
Then they would be able to sing these songs of trains
And women leaving, and their guitars
Would be terrified by the chords floating from their wooden bodies
And their women would become frightened of their places
In the lyrics of these songs—
Songs of turmoil, songs of anguish, songs of the cities in the sky!