The world and all its many fingered thumbs
has me by the throat
tugging hard at the wire
gripping tight it cuts, sharp at the prospect of another hour
until I do not know if flesh is bone,
bone is flesh,
or some thing in-between,
all is pain, and pain is all
lightning in a head that is filled to the lips with rags and straw
raw alight and burning bright, although I wish it were not so
I want it dim to let me sleep,
let me hide in dull-thought darkness
calm beneath the leafy shedding midnight trees
with their echoed mindless hum
and owls, there are always owls
screeching brutes of talon tinted wings
that eat the other flying things that haunt my night
and I can only lay
and wait for morning light