The contradistinction of my form
tosses between the gnaw of sheets,
like a jolt-of-eye boat
caught in the fulcrum of swells,

the tower of the night
(so big around me)
dominates the sway.

Each expedition of disquietude
within the chill of my sleeping place
gnarls my bones, twisting me
..... (all of me)
into a state of deformity.

The night comes,
to fling dirt in my eyes.
But, day plucks me like a scion
from my bed; grafts me
into the fold of Love’s arms;

the sang-froid of his root
extracts my anxiety,
to ease the tumors of my body;
Once, embedded, I hope to sleep,

For, Insomnia is the hourly whore,
the metaphor pacing my streets.

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