insomniac’s song

time goes flaccid late at night
dragging its feet through a shimmery summer
hanging up its keys reluctantly
just for a few hours
its thumb presses the eye of the sky shut
and the blues become shot
with darkness. some soul-explorers arrive
to poke holes into the pooling
liquid of black – the color of something closing, a

they are searching for treasure
it is rare and precious and they think it to be
so they sail in search of pinpricks
and secrets and winks, of openings
of wings.
they chase the beautiful things
they make maps and join dots
to connect the stars together
to gather so much happiness in their fists
and their bags and their breasts and their mouths
and their insides

so that they will balance. so that they will not
fall over
before time comes shuffling back
thumb out for ID inspection
pressing down on the glass of these wanderers’
skin-thin eyes till they are once again blind
servants to the sky and the house that keeps it as a carpet
to the hanging lamp dreams faded from disuse
to time’s pedantic ancient shuffle
and to all the stars they could not muster
however much they took an axe to the walls
screaming a name to make it exist.
pounding out throbs of joy
or the other.


Artwork by Troy Caperton, “Can’t Sleep”