There is no time for poetry
in the mad rush of daylight through
the skies, weighted with suspense
For the night that has lost its depth is now
tense with the cumulative strain of eyelids
over a billion pairs of eyes
Lying more awake in the dark than anywhere
else, in beds, where the world retreats
into the body to rest from time
Where, just as the mind has begun to
compose it falls into sleep, and its stirrings
into the dusk of dusty dreams
