By Lynn Wilcox You are tired. You sweat from your eyes while slumber makes your breath a whistle, I brought you here, my restless traveler, under sterile light, in hotel bathrooms, on cold porcelain, my sole splits. I cry out, but your mind is far away, reaching for some immaterial idyll. Silence enters through the window and I want for you to listen,  so I steal a moment from your slumber, unconscious, allowed.  I go to sleep with a dirty mouth  and unquiet mind. Too early.