Spoleto
Oh
god of little sorrows, do not
wait for me at the gate. Here, even
in the fugitive hours before dawn
when I am most prone to greet you, for
tonight, at least, do not wait. The one
I love is sleeping quietly, and the
frenzied bats have flown again to hang
upside down in the dark. The light from
outside is casting a bluish sheen
on the street. God of little sorrows,
I cannot wait any more for joy,
will not keep it waiting like a good
child patient for its meager turn. Now
you must wait. When I am able to sleep
again, you sleep, too. How can you not
be tired? How can you not want to rest?
Melanie Braverman