The easy sleep ends like a ferris wheel halts, my legs and back swaying from lost momentum, and the hard sleep begins.
Working down, and over, I read the numbered clues to the evening's puzzle—nouns I cannot remember. The darkness has obscured the record of my rages (or weeping) like a bad paint job. Gary breathes heavily and easily: he speaks the night's language.
The cats cross each other running ahead of my flashlight like subway rats.
Climbing down the narrow book-lined steps, as I descended Sargent Mountain 20 years ago, I reach a hostel stocked with despairing calculation: one candle, one bottle of spring water, aspirin, and sleeping pills.
I unfold myself into the bath.
The room is umber; the tiny flame is orange and red—a steamy Caravaggio, smelling of Calgon.
I count down until dawn.
