Charles Aznavour chante What Makes a Man
Antidote for Night
There’s the moon, in the
high window, her wall-eye
glancing off me, and a few bobbing stars,
every tawdry shining thing
glancing off me, and a few bobbing stars,
every tawdry shining thing
I’ve identified Venus
more times
than I can count as an agent for insomnia,
a broad sail that catches the wind and slides away.
than I can count as an agent for insomnia,
a broad sail that catches the wind and slides away.
Not even
halfway through the hours,
his fitful sleep, wheeze of a saber saw,
waves receding on a rocky shore,
his fitful sleep, wheeze of a saber saw,
waves receding on a rocky shore,
breath whip-snaking down a chute, until his body
forgets—how still, how close the kingdom,
one stalled-gulp away,
forgets—how still, how close the kingdom,
one stalled-gulp away,
and I jostle his dying shoulder—he
recoils, yes,
rebels, back now, mouth full of silver,
What? he moans to darkness, what?
rebels, back now, mouth full of silver,
What? he moans to darkness, what?
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