I can’t sleep because logic’s
Recipe is full of tar and sand.
Equal parts get me out of this mess
And get me far enough in it
To not be able to tell the difference.
Underbellies of thought
Bring but subtle comforts to not
Quite born beings.
Once it happens, they say, it
Comes naturally.
As if something could not be natural.
Water breaks the surface
Tension, that but holds together
This ragged self
Tells of monopolies of exhaust
Worry, tear-drops to clear
Duct work
And preserve, above all else
The sense that chance is not so random.
That those little fists
Have healthy walls to beat on
That the light of day
Pokes through holes
And gives these objects
That clutter the space in my bedroom
Their very colour.
That soil will grow
Something fantastic
And tasty to shade the lawn
With the ichor
Of plenitude
The lenient feathers of
Winged visitors in night’s
Event of apparition,
Who tell me this tar and sand
Ropes thick through
Rolls of waves too
Frightening to behold
So you hold a mirror up to it
To see it but once removed
And once removed,
This veil of vision leaves
And sleep settles in
Like blankets
On the clothes line
When the wind
Disappears.
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