Headache through Lack of Sleep
Fissures of granite, gnarled
And spangled like hunks of sugar; sky
Hard and bright, yet tender as
A wounded membrane.
Outside they’re drilling,
Silence fills one sandwich after another, painful air
Pockets that make the ears pop.
Sleep
Is the syrup to oil the machine
And cool the chafing cords.
Do dead
Men feel the light dancing
As the lift leaves the shaft and the blood
Batters itself against the rocks of the head?
Page(s) 9
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