listen to this poem
Fever holds me beneath the surface
of sheets that must be washed daily.
To drown in sleep is a science
that must be perfected:
thin breaths and tired arms,
so that thrashing becomes impossible.
After the second death
and the third so quickly following
I should have made it a fourth,
but now it is too far removed. So,
I tiptoe in the creaky-floored
house of sleeplessness.
When, at 6, I saw a man
fail at flying and die
a shadow sewed itself inside
my eyelids, which tremble like ghosts.