Insomnia

Stars exist. Stars exist, barred from their audiences

by speckled white ceilings, but they shine and sparkle still.

The moon exists, phases and craters and consistency. 

Blankets exist, comforters and afghans, 

duvets and quilts. 

Pillows exist, stuffed with feathers and cotton fluff, 

soft and supporting and firm. 

Warmth exists. Warmth that encases and comforts

and traps you in itself so you forget that cold

existed.

Clocks exist, tick-tick-ticking exists,

And the clocks make sure I know it. 

Shadows exist, thrown onto the wall

By passing headlights.

As does the square frame of light

Pouring in from behind my door. 

Incessant illumination exists, unfortunately.

Dark exists, swallowing darkness from my window

It encompases all but me.  

Tossing and turning exists, 

Mechanical whirring and settling foundations.

The neighbors exist, above and below. Their silence exists, their slumber. 

I heard their chatter cease hours ago.

Sheep for counting exist, bedtime stories,

chamomile tea and melatonin exist.

All exist for the sake of helping.

Sleep exists. Sound slumber and REM cycles exist, too. 

Even if I can’t find them.  

• imitation
• Inger Christensen
• insomnia
• poetry
• sleep