Insomnia is gray. Not the pearl gray of the buttons on a new spring suit. There is no iridescence at 2:00am. No faint hints of pink or powder blue, no lights reflecting off a smooth polished surface.
It is not the dove gray of a pair of soft, leather gloves. There is nothing pliable or supple at 3:00 a.m. Nor is it the gray of storm clouds, charged with ions and full of power.
The gray at 4:00 a.m. is dull and dead.
to the glow of the street lamp-
the dance of moths
Insomnia is gravel gray. Dark, uneven, blotchy. A gray mass covered with a dusty film and course sandy grit. With each move and turn, the dust lifts and floats inside my head, obscuring thoughts. The grit irritates the soft tissues of the soul and imbeds itself in the spongy surface of the mind.
hidden livesin the shadowy night-
the cries of insects
The gray swells until it has filled all the spaces that no candle or incandescent light can dispel. Then…the first, nearly imperceptible tint of dawn gray, and the gravel gray, suddenly and completely, retreats to a corner and waits.
repeated bird calls-lulled to sleep by the language
Presence, May 2005