It’s a quiet night
Save for the flit and flicker of a fly
Throwing itself against the electric light.
Sometimes you can hear the cracks
Creaking their way down walls
Or the falling of old tacks echoing
Down beige-coloured halls.
I know those noises well,
Inside the little quietness of my
I could sleep now, turn off,
Keep my head down and
Let all those thoughts clod to scrap
Yet something still stirs by the window sill.
The quietness of the night seems
Ill, not at rest, but stretched
And far less calm than mere dictations of time
It’s too quiet to sleep,
And I rather find dreams
In the unmerciful shadows cast
By electric screens.
Only slow weight draws the lids down,
Berates those brain-cells which thought
These last moments are more than tokens
That stay the natural balm.
Yet those cells are broken.
I wish for deeper sleep,
Yet find me none.
And thus I fill my nights
With nothings, one by one by one.