The Art of Sleeping #9

To whichever god counts, I confess all dead,
all dead, and add the silent moments end

to end. I proclaim nothingness and yes but
also please gravity, & near my head a walnut

half, gutted, is offered as a vessel
to the moon's pent-up duress—all

my dances to you have left me dreamless.
Midnight has strung this mess

into extra innings & I am left waiting
to account for one more loss, craving

the weight of this night, for it to crush
me into the hardened thing, to rush

toward what I deem immaculate—a tally
of these breaths dolled out all piecemeal & shallow.

Copyright © 2005 Roy Seeger All rights reserved
from The Laurel Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission