Sometimes, lying awake watching the hands
of the clock mark time's inexorable creep
knowing it is not mine to command
I flail, flounder, not quite falling. Sleep
won't come by calling. No one can climb
to it, can't strive or strain, that only drives
it away. But in attempting to rhyme
- knives, archives, desperate housewives -
poem and dream both drown in the well
into which I wake up to find I fell
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