Not like at the hostel
where the old man’s snorts and gurgles
burst forth erratically, always preceded
by a brief silence for maximum
explosive effect, so that sleep
came to us in small increments
broken again and again by his desperate
gasps and bombastic ejaculations of air
until we all gave up sleep and lay
furious in the dark
considering pillows over his face,
almost anything for an hour of peace.

No, this snoring, rhythmic and reliable, 
I have hitched my dreaming to for 20 years,
linked my own breath to a more powerful machine
and let myself be towed
through the mysterious sea of night 
the way the boys on our street
used to catch the wind behind a fast car
down Franklin Blvd., their bikes
flying in its wake,

the way my brother and I, down to our last dollar,
drove the interstate home in winter,
our dad dying in his bed,
our VW Beetle rusted full of holes,
no heater, and packed in blankets,
winter hats and gloves, we’d find a safe pocket
of wind behind a massive cargo truck
and draft the long cold night
snow sparkling in our headlights
like magical, untouchable dreams
and sail safely home to morning.