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Glenn Ingersoll


Photo by Richard Loranger

Glenn Ingersoll works for the public library in Berkeley, California where he hosts Clearly Meant, a reading & interview series. A multi-volume prose work, Thousand (Mel C Thompson Publishing) is now available from, and as an e-book from Smashwords. Recent work has appeared in Rusty Truck, Big Windows Review, and Literary Yard. He keeps two blogs: Dare I Read and LoveSettlement


The Way We Sleep Now

To escape a headache.
Only where it is quiet.
At the wheel.
Feet crossed.
Under a fuzzy jacket.
On the floor with the dog.
Under the care of a friend who comes over on Fridays.
In the nave on a hard chair.
In a shoebox next to the pot-bellied stove.
After the drug finally wears off.
Once the drug at last kicks in.
While worrying.
Content in his arms.
Among puddles.
To the sound of a phonograph needle at groove’s end.
In the midst of a sentence.
Not until the windows light from the coming sun.
As a succession of failures.
As repair or maintenance.
As a way to pass the time.
While trying to meditate.
While the machine answers the telephone.
When the news comes as a relief.
In Mama’s arms, no matter the marching band or yellow whizzing and fizzy spirals of blue sparks.
Over Papa’s shoulder in the eighth inning.
On the roof of the station wagon under stars.
Despite snores.
Cupping a chin.
In the waiting room.
In the living room under a lamp.
Four to a bed.
On bare concrete.
Beside the brook.
Where the leaf-shade dapples dead leaves.
Breath visible.
Eyelids up just a bit.
Arms wide.
One arm bent.
One hand jammed into the mouth.
Hands together.
A foot jerking, toes aflutter.
To the rhythm of the rain.
Below the weight of the snow.
Under the digits of the luminous clock.
On the short hard bunk.
Against the padded back of a tipped chair.
Afloat on a rubber mattress.
Largely forgotten.
Like a stone.
After sleeping.
After working 36 hours.
After sex.



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