Working through a fitful night
Of sleepless boredom,
Time drags but the clock flies;
This ain’t no dark night of the soul.
My mind fills its eye with shining points,
And blinks. There’s no beginning
To a dream, or more final than light
From a crack under the door.
Working out of a sleepless night
A wise one said, drunk slumbered,
“Nobody fears what they won’t feel.”
But there’s no sweating fear
Near grateful night sounds.
A burnt-out voice near its glaring dawn
Illuminates its restless dream
With a flash beyond
Dread for the coming day,
Says, “Most things may never happen.”
I wander all night through a fitful slumber,
Stepping with light and noiseless feet,
Peacefully lost to myself, gazing,
Bending through labyrinth corners.
No joyful trembling like fire light,
Or smooth floating and quiet breath –
I’m one of Whitman’s night time,
Worn-out, turning, fitful sleepers.