my night became a tea cup 
& then a sepulchre. everyone was talking
with their underground faces 
& so i took a walk to the edge town
where only worms have music. 
sometimes i wonder if my choice
to walk on the lips of bowls
is a personal one or if the locusts 
chose it for me. there will always be
a rope to jump & a candle.
sleep pours like milk from a hole
in the wall but i don't get anywhere near it.
i don't know why i am so opposed to
the kind of rest dogs partake in.
i guess i am afraid that i will
get so deep i'll wake up a new person.
then again, who doesn't want to be
anyone but themselves when they can't
fall asleep. i am thinking about
night walks on my college campus.
the little white house right
on the other side of the street
with electric candles in the windows.
i would pass & think, "a ghost lives there."
every room a diarama. i would return
to my bed in the house of mice 
& think, "it won't be long
until the street lights start 
exchanging phone numbers." i could
text with a cloud. he might say,
"go ahead. be lonely." i might say,
"i am not lonely i have you."
the night ends up a bouncey ball
then a honey comb. it's sweet. i can tell.
or, at least, someone out there thinks it is.
bites down & tastes gold. 

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