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The Insomniac’s Diplopia

The Insomniac’s Diplopia 
I see two of everything, if not four. 
Darkness at edges, holes into which 
I fall if I step too quickly. This bruise 
blossomed last week as I walked
out of the bedroom, the fluctuation 
of light tripping me over a step
that wasn’t there at all. 
Going blind, I go inward,
stay indoors, for houses are
safest. I live in loose cotton,
color of no matter when blue
seems green seems gray: 
it’s all the same. That bruise 
could be any color really;
you tell me. The strangest 
thing about insomnia is
how alone I am, suspended
in diplopia, seeing two cups, 
reaching for one on them 
with two of four hands 
and missing. The ghost cup
is a trickster, the real cup
upended, tea on the carpet 
in puddles I cannot see
when tan seems brown
seems beige: it’s all the same. 
I can only feel. At least I can feel.
There are so many good reasons 
to wish I really could be Queen. 
A servant to mop the tea, 
a court to stay awake with me,
a Royal Scientist to consult with
about all the things common people
pretend to know but really do not at all. 
I would ask her why I can’t sleep, 
why my eyes are supernovas, 
if winter ever will really arrive 
or if this sort of wet, gray, near-heat 
is going to keep pounding away 
like a terrible German lover.

Posted 02/04/15
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diplopia 3:51 am
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