Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Hot

I can’t sleep
and the orange light between the blinds is burning
and the shrill joyous voices in the hallway spike and fall
and cold keeps creeping his fingers through my clothes.
That being said, I notice nothing,
nothing that I’ve thought or said or seen nor
even the spaces of change between the hours.
I can’t sleep, but even open-eyed
I cannot see a single thing,
though white angels triple-winged are singing
and a sea of glass like ice is sizzling at your soles
and hot broken blood pours over me.
There’s too much noise—
There’s so much sound—
The day—
Dark—
Night—
I can’t sleep—