Sleep would not come to me again
last night that turned morning turned afternoon.
I stayed awake all night reading poems
afraid that someone will cover my eyes
if I close them. I smell dirt.
Tag sleep
Morning Light
This morning light has a gray filter
of clouds and a coolness unlike August.
The hole in this summer doesn’t cut
the gray. I just want quiet sleep,
sweet dreams when this long trick’s over.
The Hand in a Dream
The hand, whose cold touch awakens me,
is from a dream, and dream becomes
waking and my hand is cold and fat,
still sleeping, and astonished under warm water.
Pinpricks of consciousness, splinters of first sunlight.
The Tenth Muse
Insomnia can sometimes be the tenth muse,
but not after this day working outside.
Muscle ache and sweat makes cold water
taste better than anything mixed or brewed,
and turns off the mind to poems.
Writing the Day Into Night
That time, clearly night, but early morning
according to the pie chart of time
we have constructed to keep our sanity.
Darkness, but light glows inside and out.
Mind slower, but unable to shut down.
Poem Lost in Sleep
Started a late night poem about Shakespeare,
but fell asleep at the midnight chimes
as did the computer, now morning awakened
it says “1582, at eighteen, marries Anne,
who is 26 and pregnant with Susanna.”
Inspired, at least initially, by Swan Town: The Secret Journal of Susanna Shakespeare (a novel)
Writing the Day 