This again (or insomnia)

The moral rot

of four in the morning.

The still hour yields

not a single dream.

The bed, soft thing

made for pity, is tainted

by wakefulness.

The brass lamp that

haloed us all to bed

glares unlit, glowing

warm in their dreams.

The spider plant,

cascading for love of

itself alive with sleep,

awaked by clumsy

loneliness closes her

hundred eyes, not here

to comfort you.

Quiet now at the blessed ridge!

A humming, distant,

rhythmic rises from

its far side to sing you

to your rest.

Closer now, humming

in the ear, waves topple

their own sand castle.

Closer still, tramping

and drumming come

heralds of the vast

machinery of night.

The white belly of all

things that fail to sleep

turns to them.

Whimpering, exiled

from the kingdom that

enfolds its fragile truth,

each thing stands alone,

bound to itself.

Image courtesy of © 2011 Thinkstock