Joel Lane

Ganhou um prêmio inglês em 93, escreve romances também, claro que nenhum lançado aqui.

Sadman

You know what the day feels like
after a sleepless night. A coach station
in late spring, rainy with voices,
dissent beaten down by unconcern;
or travelling back from the coast
with sand grains lodged in the folds
of your clothes. The light is cramped.
You never clear the oxygen debt.

Meanwhile, the latent dreams will
have their say in the daylight:
a furious proliferation of images,
layer on layer on the thin action, compressed;
pages the censor and the pornographer
sat up together to make. Some people
behave as though they never slept;
their memories are only skin deep.

Dreams is too comfortable a word
for the thoughts of mine you hold
in restless hands, a cat's cradle
that you can't tighten or unpick.
Does it make you feel strong
to play the sandman with me
like this, to hurt and confort?
It sounds bitter now, to say:

when I slept with you, the best thing,
and sometimes the only thing, was the sleep.