Gary Hawkins: Insomnia

In the bed she assigned to me, too narrow for tonight,
taking for her own the couch on which
I could just as easily stretch with a three-inch
shortening of my straight and narrowed spine;
the heat blowing its desert over us
all night, competing all night for what little air,
I turn as she sleeps unforgivingly—the sun
come sharp and early over my malingered sleep.
And what does it care, the sun for me
or the weather of mundane human catastrophe
beneath its wide, ungrazing, brassy stroke?
I want to make it down here again, soon
for the weekend. I want to make it out from where
no night, however long, can ever untie me.

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