Another Early Morning

In preparing for my poetry class this afternoon I read a poem that spoke to me and my early mornings. It is by Marianne Boruch

no one in the library this early

so it's all sleep, talkative
books silenced by their covers.
And xerox machines dreaming that
one rare uncopiable thing. And computers
still pinned to their home sites. Gladness is
human: none of that. Neither
is there sorrow, or sweetness, or--
no--no jubilation. And just to invite
tears into this place, one needs a full life
or at least one afternoon,
the traffic blinding someone
driving straight into the sun: Officer,
I just didn't see it. But is it solace?
Here? A quiet, clean corner. A book of poems
no one has touched for ten years. I open it
to the middle, a poem not
particularly good, maybe an afterthought
added the last few hours
before mailing off the manuscript.
Because one line, maybe
that one....

I suppose, that at least on occasion, insomnia is my friend.