Somnolence

I am too much a sleeper,

too, too much a sleeper,

and here in the wreck

of the day I will sleep no

more on tangled bed.

I have broken windows

with my fist, and now I find

I can no more distinguish

skin from soul, nor mouth from mind,

and I must confess:

I am afraid.

In the empty boxes and the

scattered glass, the signs

may still be read: here is

umbra, penumbra,

here are vault and vine.

We have seen your splendid

instruments for the getting

of grief—I looked left

and the wall bled right.

Hooded eyes that sting

for sleep, and there is water

in them, a sea within the skull.

Ah, Lord—another day.

Yet another day.

Let this book be

my blood and bone—

reclined in chair,

let there be

words for me to live on.

Man is the making animal:

may the made bless the maker.