revel

sleep: the obsidian room,
fingernails clicking on ever surface.

when did i become insect? metal?

limbs as sewing needles, in & out of 
the shiny earth. 

repeated myself
like a wave, 

the spinning of the one-wing fly
 
sometimes you have to pull
sleep from your mouth.

unhinge your jaw like
how the adder consumes the deer,
hooves & all.

how typical is it of a us
to write poetry about 
not being able to fall asleep?

when i was younger i would
pluck out my eyes with the closest 
pen & set them on the laptop screen 

another version of
myself with tangled brown hair 
& long finger nails is 
crying in the corner

i sit up, obelisk me

tonight i want to revel 
in my restlessness

i want to reach out the window
like a cupboard till 
i find the spice jar you 
come from

cloves maybe or anise

i'm rooting in the bottom drawer
of the grass outside where
the ants whisper war plans

i tell you about the fields around
my parent's house

i don't tell you about
how sometimes when i drive at night
i'm so tired that the sides
of the road fold me in

i drip molten copper

i wax candle across your skin

i headlight into a tree.

i imagine you with me
awake & talking the room full 
of moths

every time someone says something 
i want to keep i see it growing
wings & ambling on the ceiling

i turn myself over 
like biscuit dough

i, i, i, i, i

outside the government 
is taking pictures, surely

finding all the children who
learn to not fear this awake.

the world last night was
the sound of four closing doors

of your foot steps under my eyelids,

my heart hammering floor boards
to thrum under.

i became small & crawled on
my knees beneath the pillow.

i met you there & there was a lake
& the water was cold chrome--

was neon diner ceiling.

what do you do with
your un-sleep?

do you count backwards?

i start at 99, 
98, 97,

& the walls shuffle like
a deck of cards

i think to myself 

if i stay up all night