Four A.M.

Black bread resembling
a quarter moon
stares vacantly
on the broken granite table
pawned several times
at a flea market.

I’m no sight to see
after playing alto sax
through a tentative night
without any sleep,
like a somnambulist
drawn to exhaustion.

I locate borscht
in the kitchen
and a large spoon
for breakfast
with an English magazine
featuring telescopes.

I try to survive
in a summer
disguised by thoughts
like any other exile
between two worlds.

Living inside,
music and words
vocalize to me
like twin mirrors
on this insomniac night.

I want to sleep out
by the river’s edge
and be like a shadow
of the moon passing.