The city is fianlly asleep,
its sinners and street
vendors tucked away,
its prostitutes and priests
both in their small apartments.
Little swarms of street lights
are the only things that still buzz.
And I, of course, still
scribbling away in this
make-shift memoir
am full of awake.
But soon, I will
pumpkin too and wake up
hours later, inches into the sun,
dancing with the day and all
its carnival citizens.
But for now, I open the bedroom window
and reach out a hand into the heavy night.
I grip it like bolts
of dark wool
and pull it around my naked body.
I spin until I
am wild with it.
I sink to the light oak
floor, pull my knees up
and rock myself to this
metropolitain metronome.
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