Insomnia. My head feels like a midnight bulb, shining into the darkness. This room is bright, as white as day, and blinds me from seeing that little door beyond which a dusty slide would certainly carry me, finally, into a dream world. Any dream world, so long as this body can practice stillness and this mind can stop churning out images upon images of a man building in the night.

I believe many poems visit in the night, as my body — a stiff board, a shaft in the gear of society — hovers uselessly along the razor’s edge between flesh and corpse. My heart beats unknown rhythms while those poems fly in on the wings of Spring.

To be stroked in the night by a poem and then, like every poet fallen from up high, to remember nothing come morning — in spite of two chisels, a crown, and a parachute found strewn amongst splinters over the floorboards next to where I sleep.

Soon dawn will crack its purple whip, sending me at last through that sandy door, down into the depths. Surrounded by three million hive-dwellers dressing their minds and feeding their ponies, at last I am gone, practicing nothingness, writing sleep poems.