a poem by Stanford Cheung

To sing your refusals of sleep from rust lined moths
that stammer. I’m sure city lines counting lives

in another life down sills wet with wait. Happiness is
a type of luck painted over sleep. Happy Birthday

Mr. Lawrence. Happiness over sleep that turns and wisps
you alive. I grew up waiting for the sleep to pass by.

A cloud is a type of moon the way sailors catch lost
stars. What the voice never told you was something

inside the cloud. The cloud spins itself the way
you want it to be seen. Why build the world

from nothing when you found sleep. A city is a
sea of strangers but you see the future is too busy

to be reminded of something everyone wants. Going

Today is Wednesday. Rain is in the air. It’s heavy and
soaring the way love makes skies shatter.

I wrapped myself on fire and called it sleep.
Luck is a dream worth waiting for.