"Liberty" is too big a word to read aloud, Among all the printed trash of papers crowding out The cafe clatter, coffee cups gone cold, The morning rage that accompanies opining apes Who spare no detailed love for inch-high dreams. (Still, rhyming Jack nodded among his Harriman's teas, Seeking biggest visions in that gentle steam and seethe.) Sleep, to them, is release from obligation, A vacation from invective, light's extinction, perdu. Their moon's no mistress of inventive eye, Doodling woozy outlines of pallid paradise As she parades, en nude pointe, about the parkinglot. No, no. Sleep is their escape, purely and practically, An oubliette to oblivion for the day's rubbish, A hole where magic casements ope' On pools of dirty oil. (Perseverant Jack, to grow his giant, thumbs the seed Into his very ear until the broken cradle bleeds, Responsive to sharp imagination's seethe and need.) Clairvoyant voyageurs of the quaint quotidian, They read their minds in the paper every day: Life is puerile in a purple haze, A titanic catastrophe, capsized Beside an iceberg. And no rowboat home.