A thirst for sleep I cannot slake
finds me at four a.m. awake
not napping in a lapping breeze
that whispers in the lilting trees
and bellies curtains into sails.
Habitually when slumber fails
I will drill those errant lines
that won’t succumb to my designs
and if I’m lucky by the time the
sheets are cold a stubborn rhyme
will nestle in a simple scheme and
make those sleepless hours seem
a boon. Of course, it’s just a ruse;
a metric trick I often use
to pen my worries in; like sheep,
that graze the weaker seams of sleep.