In the fume of the late world, I
lie in bed awake. Two o’clock
I turn the light off, finally
to end another day, and sleep.
A whistle, I hear, a trilling
out at the top of the north town –
The air is mild at autumn’s end
and a nightingale is singing.
I am opened up wide by it
I think of waking the whole house
Shouting to the street night, get up
a soft event is occurring.
Open in the window, with cool
air playing on my back, I hold
the phone with its small ear outward
Hoping to give my tired parents
sign of a small brown bird, city
bird now, or lost. I am awake
due to anxious spurrings, a world
that is inexplicable. Sleep
had it taken me, I don’t think
would have had resource to rival
this surprise which is beauty, and
banishes fear. If for a time