The Grutz and Kretzinger poem
by s.m.g.
The z in my name is what little amount
of sleep there is
before dropping off into dead space,
sleep that hangs on a cross
or sleep that curls its cursive z into
a bow for a real gift
of getting enough. The z in your name
is surrounded by dreams
right in the middle of a door
unlocking, sleep that is hard on the tongue
but in line with a mark of fire. There
would never be an s that could
compensate, only the z that no one
named a vitamin after,
sleep infrequent, and sleep at the far
end of a tossing and turning alphabet.
Comments
Post a Comment