The Insomniac’s Guide to the Stars,
its numberless blank spaces
and the smear of gravity
for those who don’t like reading.
A vast assortment of corners
where the sleepless go for brief respite.
A variety of darknesses
for the discerning nighthawk.
It’s dark. It’s night.
But a light is burning
like a restive mind,
the last person on Earth
sleepwalking across the universe.
It’s a banquet in a season of scarcity,
stars like cats’ eyes and embers,
my personal downfall in full swing.
It’s a map of midnight and how to get there,
with new names for old constellations,
new gods and demigods,
the sleepless one tugging on a curtain,
planets where his eyes should be,
comets foreshadowing death
and the way uncertain.