Trying.  Tired. 

Trucks pass, TV’s on 

downstairs.  A candle flickers.  

Feet cold. Try to sleep. 


The sound machine in 

her room breathes ocean waves through 

baby’s monitor. 


The day clings ’round my

sternum, brushing heart and lungs,

burrowing there, though

I try to pry it

loose, humanely. 


You arrive. 

The house is darker,

quieter, heavier,

and I try to let the heaviness

blanket me, 

or to float off

into light nothing.  

I’m trying to sleep.