You needn't know anything else.
He is the nothingness of sleep.
The pinging of a carpenter's
French hammer or Leonid
meteor falling. Sometimes he
carries a Tibor Pacific in his bag,
and sitting on a barstool, he
pulls it out just to hear its familiar
clicking. He curses in the shower,
addressing no one. He is no
better or worse, not this woman's
deus ex machina or tattoo. He
is great material, as I suppose
I am, too. Great loves are
always like that, even when
they're done. She is a fool
who cannot recognize her life's
canon, who does not often
pull the volume off the shelf
and flip through its familiar
pages, and in that, there's
nothing to fear, just a sound
who's echo bears repeating,
especially right before the nothingness
of sleep takes over, and she
falls into it headfirst again.
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