by John Grey.
The hour is strung out worse than me,
in the remains of night’s gutter.
And sleep’s a disease I can’t quite catch,
so I lie here, part solitary,
part every restless human being extant.
Sheets and blankets fall off me like old lovers.
The pillow squeezes my skull.
Thoughts bust through the sides of my head.
I reel them in as best I can,
before they scatter into morning.
That’s where the day
gangs up with sunlight,
widens my tired eyes,
shakes down what’s left of me.