It is not a kite to fly
or a white arrow
pointing him or her
or us out that is
then isn’t
there. It is the sleep
that hangs over us
a stage curtain weighted
in its hem with broken
bolts and screws.
When it falls
it falls.
Sleep is not a kite
for flying.
Night not shorter
than a tether or
taut a fingertip is purple
or a pair of fingers
head still grey.
The air is closed.
My grey head
trembling under
the weight of its
own inner
weather. I worry about
things.
The air is grey.
It points her or us out.
It is the sleep that is
then isn’t there.
My head waits
tethered to its hem
like bolts.
The night
a white arrow
is not for kiting.
When it falls
it falls.
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