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.