Every night I keep you awake the same way,
asking questions so you won't fall asleep.
I'm only afraid when there's nothing left to say,

so I plow words into your thick calm like a dray
mare that can think nothing but sow, till, reap.
Every night I keep you awake the same way.

Sometimes I talk until a smear of light, steel grey,
bleary with dawn, begins its insistent seep
under the shade. When there's nothing left to say

I put aside my disbelief in God and pray
for inspiration, for questions that strike deep
enough to keep you awake the same way,

to delay the turn your face takes, into clay
as ochre as the sunset, while you sleep.
I'm only afraid when there's nothing left to say,

when the only motion is the noiseless play
of moonlight through the curtain's listless drape.
Every night I keep you awake the same way.
I'm only afraid when there's nothing left to say.