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Philip Weeks

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Not Quite Insomnia

sleep will not come easy tonight
but this has little significance
and what there is will spread well
like the last moments of summer
stretched beyond recognition
until the cold shines through
the thin membrane of separation

but this is not of concern
neither is the cat who walks
a wobbly line toward a last winter
she will not see the end of
thinning out yet eating more
the close fur becoming a loose coat
perhaps she carries her worms innocently

nor is it a window unlatched at night
and flapping endlessly off
into the bruise-coloured darkness
pulped like a grape skin
by the banging frame
the noise enters my hard-earned dream
distantly a bony echo breaks from the valley
and once again I am stabbed into awareness
of an absence in the bed
like a flatulent teddybear frigid and empty
and possibly the thought of you in another

 

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