Ballad for an Insomniac

December light from your closed eyes
                   a simple rock

at the entrance door. An old Lilac tree bows out.
                   Tiny blue leaves left

to rot. Dead ones, one
                   at a time. It takes a night sky and a life

to look closely
                   at your dirty hands. Fire out

      from your badly sewn eyelids.

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The only river that brought you here
              stands in a room that contains

                                                  an abandoned house,
                                                            its cracked doors, thin gaps

                                                  dust wants to escape, flees
                                                            through painful weeds.

        Inside this piling tower of pillows, you
                   hold a giant black peony.

It opens like a hand.

Read more from Issue No. 19 or share on Twitter.