After the first sleep, the small hours are useful,
At least when there’s weather, for reconsidering
Words falling out of the ether. Pain battens
On the bones that wake aching. Brain’s nattering
On about patterns again. Faint titles of poems
Steer dream sleep into half-remembered
Things, rifts in texts, gifts of X, the last line now,
The first line then. Maintain, maintain, the pulse
Thunders, and the lungs drag the room’s dusky air
Under. The second sleep proves none the wiser.
Rain battering the panes. Pain rattering the
Banes of existence, banes always stuck being
“Of existence,” poor things. Here come fresh dreams,
Sneaking back through the brain. Slippery sliders,
Pipes in the walls draining while outside the drainpipes
Gather each dream. No, the rain we mean. Either either
Can't explain rain’s clattering remains. Neither neither.
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