Hours in their unending,
racing, ticking revolution
rob the sleep,
the rest, the calm,
and the last straws
from under weary feet.
In the panic, the jolt
of terrible realization:
sleeplessness!
Breeding mistake
and double-take
and “I'll be late”
again and again and -
oh, the hair-pullingness
of the moment!
So comes it,
the Dark Side,
the Dark One,
bitter and black,
with the forbidden aroma
that calls to sleepwalkers
as sirens to sailors:
and we, half-ruined,
take the dive into the cup
and face the attack.
Heart a drumroll,
arteries a racetrack,
and blood the unwilling victim
of a frenzied, desperate race;
eyes open, senses on edge,
we take the second,
third,
fourth
wind
and turn it
into a life.
“Two creams,
two sugars.”
And we are done for.
