Old motors gnash the frozen street, a staccato that perforates, then tears night from evening, leaving the irrevocable future where it’s difficult to say which noises are the horrible ones, which ones should go on tapes to help us sleep. Sleep is difficult—not the act, the thing, the fact of being severed. Sleep rests like the lot beneath the window with its latent touchy car alarms, though all night it’s a curled animal without movement or sense. Hours accrue without us in them even though we are, the way we’re in outer space without knowing it and the earth seen from the moon lies down in the dark. Once, the moon was flawless, smooth as a newborn’s brain, ice water pooled in a cave in the woods. Then Galileo opened his mouth: clenched stutter of a nail pried loose. We opened ours too, hungry eaglets whose nests speckle the cliff-face.