12.01 a.m. Now I lay me down but not to sleep, oh Lord no, not this boy
not with mind that wonders, wanders like the sheep I should be
counting -- why sheep, I wonder, smelly things of little
brain and easily led to places, places, spaces
like the what's-it-called where blood is
shed like so much else is shed
before we're dead and gone
and I don't know what
else beyond
the pale


it seems,
about to have
a better night, not
just yet when my back
feels like a migrained pretzel
twisted like those bloody sheep
entwined upon the butcher's hooks
which served them right I s'pose for being
led like lambs en route to dusky death and maybe I
should start to count again with one sheep, two sheep... no sleep.