is the kind of thought that enters my mind
when I’m trying to sleep, when sleep seems like a miracle
or a magic trick, and don’t get me started
on what happens when I try to count sheep, fine,
I’ll tell you that the sheep turn to words
wandering in all directions as my brain and body
have awkward conversations about difficult
or pointless topics and I worry that if I succeed
at falling asleep I will sleep through
my one shot at heroism or immortality
like there’s a child nearby poised to be pushed
out of the way of an onrushing car
or maybe the words of my one great poem
have chosen this evening to hit me
like lightning but instead of gathering them
I’ll have dreams that I won’t remember,
and of course these worries keep me
from falling asleep, though they don’t quite
keep me awake, just idling at the intersection
of yawn and yawp, a wild creature fighting
a mild teacher for the wheel, which locks up,
along with the brakes, and in the headlights a child
who turns out to be me, to, so I guess I’ve fallen
asleep after all, fallen for that old trick
of the imagination which says I can be the hero
as well as the child as well as the one steering,
each of my three hearts filled with anticipation
for sunrise which arrives like a magic word
and all the birds the audience watched fly away
hide now under the magician’s hat, which they lift
up, up, up, sunrise a magic word and a floating hat.