The details of the disease are the least
of it. It’s this thirst for rest that teaches
lessons: how to measure energy
in a glass cup, how to forgo
impulse, to sculpt days precise as snow
fall on a park bench, in waiting
rooms, on buses and trains, in niches
of old buildings—to make little nights
out of daylight, sweet tea of half sleep—anywhere
flashing squares of windows suggest
the future, vast and burning (who cares who’s
looking) with the rubied translucence of carousel
horses, turning only to return, insistent
tale bearers, alive as you or me.