And the Time Is: Poems, 1958-2013

Sleep Is a Dangerous Exile

238 Sleep Is a Dangerous Exile Watches, shoes and outer garb? Superfluous. Loose-fitting cottons will do or nothing at all, depending on the thermostat. Some claim that sleep’s the ultimate democracy this side of death although it wastes one-third of every day and every life in deference to nothing but fatigue. Asleep, you feel defenseless and alone. Nightmares will stun you like a storm at sea, quicksand will suck you under, and the dead will rise. It’s more than Freudian suppression that’s at work. It’s life’s ongoing war against itself, and you’re the victim. The lone escape is waking up. You leave your dreams the way a swimmer leaves the ocean, no longer threatened by that element. But dangers never die, and you will swim those depths again. . . . Remember the swerving car that almost ran you down? 239 It grazed you like a passing curse and smeared its fender salt like whitewash on your coat. An inch here, an inch there. . . . But in your dreams you’re always hit. Your coat’s entangled with a tire. You’re being dragged and mangled by the wheels. The driver speeds away but not from guilt or fear of being found at fault. It seems he never even saw you. ...