poem in which speaker tries to sleep

if on nice nights

when the moon

is waxed enough, I

lie on my belly in bed

chin angled a way that

I find comfortable

and shut my eyes

the spear of pale light

shyly streaming in

from the side of the blinds

on the window at my

seven o’clock is recast

but brighter, like

a neon tibia.

I think I could have a heart

attack for the force of that after-

image at the seven o’clock inside me.

it’s a war on

nature, ripening

endlessly

and the pale spear

a weapon I think I could claw out and use.

would tape

to keep the blinds down

be reactive?

what is it in my nature

I can fix, I ask her, always while

she’s sleeping.