Some Nights comes from a poem called Sleeping Brainwaves, which was something I worked on a few years ago to help make sense of the occasional pre-dream, non-English chatter that would “play” in my head while I was trying to fall asleep. It wasn’t every night, but there was a spell where it happened more often than I would have liked. The only “rational” explanation I could come up with was that our brains are transmitters, each picking up distinct signals across timezones, meridians, continents, etc. Different episodes would tune in and out; eventually I’d latch onto one and drift straight into a dream. I decided to return to Sleeping Brainwaves after Courtney found the the first version while she was setting up her new home office. Neither feels done to me.

Some Nights

Some nights, static fuzz in my head
buzzes like shortwave,
nonstop Spanish talk,
Russians argue drunk,
a Latin priest at mass.

How these dregs of dream arrive
I can’t say, only soon
sounds form a tunnel
back to my father
dressing for work.

He explains how the knot in his tie
lines up with buttons
from collar to belt
where the buckle shines
for whomever signs off

on the raise due two years now
for looking sharp,
always punctual, quick -
a gift of sleep
he says some nights

while others
he’s as washed out as me,
dresses under too bright a light,
wonders back to something
he heard but didn’t catch.

Sleeping Brainwaves

I hear voices of old loves
at night, friends
some dead, family the same.

Ghosts that walk me over
to sleep, talk
from behind ears.
They open doors into dreams,
guide me to the bottom

as my own voice rushes past,
muffled in the din of the rest,
off to haunt friends
far off,

our brains
twisting at their stems,
affairs our bodies
never know.