Insomniac Maps the Night



A group of dead friends is called

a memory. A grouping of grave robbers,


a scalpel. I know of a surgery

that removes nothing,


rearranges each vertebra

into a necklace


of names speaking into the dark

asking me to join them,


to let the night wear me

thin. This moon, like a lathe,

ground me down

until I knew the exact


hour the moon owned,

and in which traffic was born,


and in which I was most likely

to consider running


a scalpel across my neck.

I found the hour


in which dead friends congregate

and knock


against my head, laughing,

bouncing a basketball against the door,


one points to the last hour of good light,

and, as I begin to lace my shoes,


says, hurry up. Open the door. Just open it.