Listless

Past midnight
On a Saturday
And the sunlight on the ceiling overhead

In tired chains
Frail, bony wings
Flying, flying, too late

A book of Rimbaud on the floor
Faced-up, nothing irregular
Only the type is out of print

The light seeps sulking beneath the door
In a narrow slit
It cracks and the darkness must wonder

Long past one
The floor moves, shakes
Unsteady in the silent light, too bright, too ambient

Though the shadows move
Though the wind whistles through lips cracked
Through the window open wide

Long past the creeping reverie
The nightmare at the foot of the bed
The dial counts the hurried time

In one, two, three
In one, two, three
In one, two, three

Stop counting sheep
The flock’s run into the fold
Of the soiled sheets of morning.