Insomniac Maps the Night

by MICHAEL LEE

 

A group of dead friends is called

a memory. A grouping of grave robbers,

 

a scalpel. I know of a surgery

that removes nothing,

 

rearranges each vertebra

into a necklace

 

of names speaking into the dark

asking me to join them,

 

to let the night wear me

thin. This moon, like a lathe,
 

ground me down

until I knew the exact

 

hour the moon owned,

and in which traffic was born,

 

and in which I was most likely

to consider running

 

a scalpel across my neck.

I found the hour

 

in which dead friends congregate

and knock

 

against my head, laughing,

bouncing a basketball against the door,

 

one points to the last hour of good light,

and, as I begin to lace my shoes,

 

says, hurry up. Open the door. Just open it.