On the drowsing above-bed wall I caught them
Stealing out – like a rook or bishop mid-move- fir trees,
Their long faces stooped on shrapnel chins, leaping
Away from the headlights of a somnambulist car passing;
Then quickly as if to cover up the slip, crouch
Against any one of four edges until
Behind me, the streetlight flickers back on
Offering to read my face-
A neat black blot on blank wall.
FOOTNOTE: I wouldn’t mind the sleepless nights as much if I could write a poem for every time I’m unable to sleep.