The Insomniacs' Afterlife

Unprepared for the exotic stillness
elsewhere capturing their bodies, their souls
stand separate, muscular and splintered
as phone poles stacked with homemade signs
at distant crossroads. Before them, the fields
are kind and uncomplicated. Others
stroll about them freely, kites unknotted
from the branches in October—let loose
and gliding with deserved mobility.

The insomniacs, though, are rooted in place,
each one bearing the expression
of the just-discovered-uttering. The embedded
world moves past in all directions—like night can
sometimes pass a lamp-lit window undetected.

Copyright © 2007 Gabriel Fried All rights reserved
from Making the New Lamb Take
Sarabande Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission