The digital bars shimmer, the shadows
shimmer too, volumetrically, hunching
at the doorframe, and there is no such
thing as white anywhere in the universe,
and shadows cannot keep to themselves.
When my eyelids touch, it all feels white,
granular strain, the galloping horses, huffing
fast hot steam, and the sheets too, feel white
as they mingle in their strange entangling cold.
Best ask, “What doesn’t it mean not to sleep?”
There is a whole forest here that could be read,
pine-sweet smell tossed about. It might heave
of peppermint. I never knew who thought of it,
or why man decided it went well with a mouth.