Should I sleep in my clothes again
or does it matter to anyone but me?
(Oh, there's crumbs in my beard...
maybe tomorrow I'll brush them out.)
There are nights when the fog rolls in
so heavy that the pale light of your lantern
won't begin to cut a path forward.
And you haven't got a dog
you haven't got a woman
and you just ran out of beer.
What is dead is restless
and you've rescued no one.
That portends a long winter's night
and summer has just begun.
I'll leave the window cracked a bit
in case there are ghosts who want
to slip in to hurl their final accusations.
Then I will sleep
and close my eyes
to everything that dies.
