Deep in the early morning, even before the wind awakens,
I slip out of bed and roam from room to room, looking
for evidence that I belong here, testimony that I have
a right to prowl in my restless search for something to
replace the sleep that eludes me in the pitch black night.

Not yet half past two, the night is too young to abandon,
yet too old to warrant all the attention I could give it
were I of a mind to fawn over sleep that’s gone missing
like a precious child who didn’t return from school after
boredom led her to wander into a creek on the way home.

Some nights I struggle against an urge to simply slip away,
disappearing into the darkness and emerging days or weeks
or years later in another country or another time or as another
person, cleansed of the detritus of reckless mistakes I’ve made
during a lifetime of clinging to lifeboats earned by someone else.


About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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