It is, I know, masochistic
to concentrate to heavily
on things the gods have, in their wisdom,
been pleased to place beyond our reach.
And yet, a morbid fascination
with sleep and its accoutrements
asserts itself as, sound awake,
I listen to her rhythmic sighs.
Iambs, trochees, Dactyls maybe?
It's difficult to hear the stress.
Perhaps they're pyrrhics. Every breath
is counterpoised against another
in calm chiastic symmetry.
Unconscious genius, we are told,
is just another specious myth
conceived to foist elitist values
upon the proletariat.
But some insomniacs will differ,
at least the ones who lie in bed
and pass the hours scanning sighs.
They have heard it loud and clear
in the poetry of peaceful sleep.
