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Insomnia always knocks like an unexpected poem, even though we already knew it was going to come.
Yet another poem on insomnia. Accompanied with a small essay.
I already know
I have to write a poem before going to sleep.
Why a poem? You ask.
And I tell you — because I don’t know
why the apprehensions of a quality-time
before sleep, tends
to evade me by the end
of the evening.
The evening has not ended
yet, and the knock-knock
of a feral animal called insomnia
has begun to put me into sleep —
a make-believe, very confusing
empty sleep
with the qualities of the moon.
Insomnia always knocks
like an unexpected poem even
though we already knew
it was going to come.
As I said in one of my earlier poems, Insomnia is my bed partner:
