I do not count sheep
So little I care for sleep, instead—
Two windows of red
Pressed against glass
As those white cars pass, strange
The limit of domain and range
Die in my mind
But what of the mice,
When the cat plays nice? No bite
To provoke the nightly fight
Against my dreams
Though when I try to wake
For appearances sake, I think
Of what is brave and real, but
I do not wish to feel
Such things