Sleep, Be Ours

Sleep is just a form of judgement;
a fecal brick on a sponge of stars.
Liniment on the sting of light
over a flag of mistakes, if such
a thing could be flagged or exhausted
or simply endured. I too strip my desk-
oh my desk, where else to dump that bothersome
woe? I'll get a hook in the meat of the thumb.
This is all there is to lavender and pillows
over hollow grins that lift us lighter
or darker. If you've ever heard a death rattle
you'll know when it comes for you.
Sleep's dark mechanism is that swift
ending doused with rosewater and myrrh.
A glance, another form of luck. Shielded from
balance, lit up by some new form
of gentleness. A greasy kiss of elegance
you'll never be alone, be ours.