Poem: Losing Sleep

I cull poetry like I would
a sheaf of wheat, not that
my hand has ever held a scythe.

This is a pause, heavy
with meaning, a raindrop hanging
at the tip of a leaf, sharply slipping.

Tell me how it feels to hold
a pen, a hand, an hour
and say that perhaps it is nothing.

Some days I wish that it would all
just vanish, and that you are just
a grain of sand, an amber fly in my palm.

Don't you realize that even the sky
is a prisoner? We all want a place
to escape. There are always windows.

Come. Lock the door. Close your eyes.
This is my life line, my heart line - traceries
my skin a web, a map of a life.