Sleepless

The taste of sleep is on my lips,

my tongue, the grainy feel

of it in my eyes.  And yet, I lie

wakeful, lie open

to the night that slips over

and inside me like tiny hands

and winds itself like ribbons. 

in my hair.

Insomnia

“Can’t you come to bed?”

my lover asks,

where she is nestled

among the quilts.

I stand at my mirror,

brushing out my hair,

no sleep crossing my eyes.

“I will, I will,” I say.

But I don’t.

I move softly

through the room,

straightening books on a shelf,

tracing the outline of a photograph

with one fingertip.

The news comes on the TV,

and goes off.

My lover sleeps now,

curled on her side like a child.

I stop to stroke her hair.

I make tea in the quiet kitchen.