Washed up on the Shore of Sleep

How tired can I get
before tiredness forgets itself,
folds inside out,
becomes a state not of sleep
but of sharp, useless alertness
a waking dream with heavy arms?

Fifteen minutes more,
the sweetest ocean,
warm tide that carries me back,
like the bed is a friend
I finally forgave.

But fifty minutes later,
I am stranded,
washed up on the same shore
with sand in my throat.
The softness rots into weight,
and what felt like healing
becomes a debt I cannot pay.

Is it the place?
The dim room that holds me hostage?
Is it the mind
clear as winter air,
or cluttered with crumbs of thought
that pretend to be fullness?

Because fullness, I find,
is foolish
a cupboard stuffed with stale bread.
And emptiness,
though frightening,
is a rare kind of truth:
serious, still,
like a blank page waiting.

Tired is the rope between them,
a pull in both directions,
a body begging for silence,
a mind rehearsing noise.
To be tired
is to wander the border
of here and not here
and the longer I wander,
the less I know
which side I want.

by Gary Guz