September 22nd The First Day of Fall

Waiting For Sleep


My patience has been tested by pillows
which may seem an odd way to look at things
horizontal and staring up at the floor.
The clock moves like mercury, liquid
and spilling, scurrying slowly as if
to mock these nocturnal thoughts.
I am an octopus with galloping arms,
struggling with sheets made of oak
satin skin, fidgeting with the hours
like a perforating wind.
Everything is seeping through my windows
eyes of coal, dreams of alabaster china
dolls and green doors filled with sheer
black stockings.
Sleep has become the moonlight lagoon
to which I cannot fathom, its depths of
deep blue wishes and naked bottoms in chaps.
Perfume percolates like coffee, sweet and
naked as a perfect belly exposed to my
touch.
I feel like sand being lapped by the sea,
the salt of my flesh like a joyous wound,
relished with a sensual savvy.
I am nocturnal like a loon, summoned by
insomnia to endure with a smile this
most long and arduously tender night.

Kevin Harling.