insomnia

I am ill, the fact of my illness shapes the world
gently in its hands. Another night slips beneath me,
and I breathe in… hold… and release. The world
is illness-shaped and I close my eyes and build
a picture of the real world. The sane world and
the slippery slope.

If there is a slippery slope against the sane world,
I can climb. I can climb out past the rising sun,
into the day. A passionate sun on the glaze of
the earth. I breathe in… hold… release. I
will worship the day, the sun giving me
absolution.

I let the sins slip away to a quiet
place. The sun does not ask for contrition,
the illness does not ask forgiveness. I look
into the quiet place for simple honesty. The sun
does not care about grace or
safety. I will be honest with myself,
then forgive.

I worship the sun who loves
the earth and every living thing, the trees
budding in March, the deep pull of gravity
governing the restless seas, the woman, surprised
and laughing.