Trying. Tired.

Trucks pass, TV’s on 

downstairs.  A candle flickers.  

Feet cold. Try to sleep. 

*

The sound machine in 

her room breathes ocean waves through 

baby’s monitor. 

*

The day clings ’round my

sternum, brushing heart and lungs,

burrowing there, though

I try to pry it

loose, humanely. 

*

You arrive. 

The house is darker,

quieter, heavier,

and I try to let the heaviness

blanket me, 

or to float off

into light nothing.  

I’m trying to sleep. 

Poem for a Stormy Night and a Sinus Headache

Hollows of my head

throb.  Branches ripped by wind lie

rain-beaten on grass.

*
That wind howls still, strong,

and the lights flicker.  The house

goes quiet.  The sound

is outside.  Lay me

down in silent sleep,

surrounded.

Haiku for Nighttime

Bed calls. Dark rises.
I fall down into blankets,
Crumpled and dreaming.