the world doesn't need beauty sleep

mother earth is pregnant;

her curves yawn -
molasses stretches of dark,
dank night freckled with
streetlights sparkling.

i yearn to rest in the cradle
that the small of her back
has become.

the roads untangle like
veins unto her skin
after being held so long
in the fist of pre-dawn.

drunk in slumber, red-eyed,
beautiful - morning will
come yet, the small child
born in the rafters of
catastrophe, aching;

but before her date,
mother earth shifts in her sleep,
love settling in the wing
of her hip -
exhaustion dilutes her blood,
consciousness touches her golden
shoulder on his way out the door.