vigil

i was the first one to reject sleep
in favor of knowing. cut a hole in the middle
of my mattress to remind myself of sink holes 
& impending plummets. it was indigo at first.
then just purple. then pastel. lavendar.
i smelled pine needles & cirtus moons.
my irises turned into melons. i was so so sweet.
delectable. had to resist the urge
to wake all my loved ones up to say
"you are missing so much. the night is full
of diamonds." i harvested parables. 
invented seeds. listened to all my neighbors
as they poured sleep from chimneys & windows.
if you knew where the spiders go at night
you would wear a plastic bag over your head too.
i've learned to breathe this way-- through 
all kinds of membranes: glass & burlap & plastic.
the ghosts these days are metallic anyway.
all the wooden ones degraded & turned to dust.
taken care of by the street cleaner.
from my kitchen i saw a mailbox spit.
witnessed two rabbits trading vehicles.
if no one is watching, nothing is happening.
i don't do this selfishly. this is in case
no one else's eyes are open. we wouldn't want
the world to stop. it will roll up like a rug 
if we aren't careful. you have to scour. 
you have to light candles. when i feel myself getting tired. 
i spin a top in each of my eyes. i tell the night insects
"please talk to me." they tell me pre-human stories
all in sound & color. the vermilion one is my favorite. 
standing out in the street, even the cars are dead.
burrowed next to the ground hogs. a phantom snow
is always waiting for the right season.
i open my palm & catch a baby shoe 
as if fals from a morning cloud.