Monday, August 31, 2009

new poem: insomnia


each raised pore is a spirit's home

there are many living in my face

when i can't sleep

i know spirits are gathered over me.

they vie for my patient ears to hear

their stories too melancholy for the daylight,

my skin picks them up

from the places i've travelled

and refuses to put them down.

my eyes have always been dull,

each fidget with the pillows

or shift to the other side,

they hold their calloused tongues. i cry for them

in the same way i would cry for myself.


i envy them -- but only in the superficial ways i'm supposed to

not because they are like me,

wanting to share a story but with no one to listen--

being elegantly free

in the same space with me

as if i was the Free

they are trying to escape to.

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