Insomniac Poet

common mirrors
dream into winter's vertigo
you remain undiscovered
by sleepwalkers' daily nightmares
reaching obscure islands,
scented, wakes dead landscapes
of blue exhaustion.
When time wishes disbelief
to pass over us
and we feast on candied cigars
devour a half-murdered cake
color in kinetic gold hair
for the local Rapunzel,
count pickpockets of stars
until we, like Narcissus
float on rivers
with new names and faces
or follow into deep woods
running from our fathers
and slide in snow beds
waiting for muzak's short waves
to guide an insomniac's grief
hearing the coolness of bells
or the trolley's from childhood
expecting only silence's absence
to turn over our covers again.

B. Z. Niditch
Brookline MA