6 of 159

by Tatyana Carney

This pitch light, exasperating exhalation of things to canter
through this room tomorrow, is the hollow of midnight.
Moving beds to ceilings and fans to floors
in an attempt to confuse my orderly mind.
It's all a blur with aluminum chip eyes having no lids.

Where do the lids go during this thing they call sleep?
Not the lids to eyes, but the lids to dreams.
The lids to tomorrows and the lids to what might have,
could have, should have been.

Perhaps, I'll nail the furniture of my thoughts down tonight.
Stick pin the paintings to the melting metal walls,
and hope for the best at daybreak.
Perhaps not.
It's a quandary of ticking seconds to spin in this loss of breath,
this hollow of midnight,
and my passion for sleep's gotta come.

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Poetry: Nighttime blues

by Tatyana Carney

Poetry: Nighttime blues

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