I doze in tranches and planes,
angled acutely
like some Cubist harlequin.

Easy once, that nightly pirouette
into REM sleep,
but what with the road rage,

dirty bombs, malevolent spores,
it's clear that's Oblivion
whose sulfurous wheezes

are singeing our neck-hairs,
hence my new habit
of sleeping with the lights on—

which doesn't mean sleep's
a bad thing, in fact
its lack makes everyone's bones

cry out, and right now my vertebrae
are emitting a cascade
of wails to do a banshee proud.

O numinous world!, where a thing
so routine, so banal
as tonight's pastel sky

still takes one's breath, even as out there
they're searching for the next
seven-year-old stolen from her bed

while asleep, and cactuses in the desert
(where the body waits)
already are entering bloom.











Used by permission of the author.