Some sleep is a rerun,
a hiccup of days in hammocks,
of cracks in arches, of percussion,
or situation: a gnat in the nostril;
a cat at the portal;
a fold creases a stone.
Sometimes at sunset
a gunshot:
the world so serious
serious music gets piped in.
They call it genetic.
The lights go out, bridges raise
and a vast province
of storefronts and habits,
a pothole of feathers
or fathers,
a boy on a boat
in the difficult snow.