Sleep
Some nights I wonder why I bother with sleep,
think instead how I could become sleepless:
writing like a machine, always awake,
how productive I could be, the fun
I could find, the night adventures
I would have while the world sleeps,
actually doing them rather than this:
imagining from my bed as I stare
at the darkened window, not even
bothering to close my eyes,
sleep is so far from my grasp;
until I recall those days I get caught in,
days I wish to end but never do,
days I spend yearning for sleep,
sleep as a kind of death—
so again I close my eyes and wait
for the night’s little death to come.