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sleep, little beansprout don't be scared the night is simply the true sky bared sleep, little dillseed don't be afraid the moon is the sunlight ricocheted sleep, little button don't make a fuss we make up the gods so they can make us sleep, little nubbin don't you stir this sky smiled down on Atlantis and Ur
Copyright © 2007 by Albert Goldbarth. Reprinted from The Kitchen Sink: New and Selected Poems, 1972-2007 with the permission of Graywolf Press, Saint Paul, Minnesota.
It's as if every demon from hell with aspirations toward interior design flew overhead and indiscriminately spouted gouts of molten gold, that cooled down into swan-shape spigots, doorknobs, pen-and-inkwell sets. A chandelier the size of a planetarium dome is gold, and the commodes.
The drizzle-slicked cobblestone alleys
of some city;
and the brickwork back
of the lumbering Galapagos tortoise
they'd set me astride, at the "petting zoo"....
The taste of our squabble still in my mouth
the next day;
and the brackish puddles sectioning
the street one morning after a storm....
So poetry configures its comparisons.Physics says: go to sleep. Of course you're tired. Every atom in you has been dancing the shimmy in silver shoes nonstop from mitosis to now. Quit tapping your feet. They'll dance inside themselves without you. Go to sleep. Geology says: it will be all right. Slow inch by inch America is giving itself to the ocean. Go to sleep. Let darkness lap at your sides. Give darkness an inch. You aren't alone. All of the continents used to be one body. You aren't alone.