There is no sleep in the calm
commotion of dreams.
Doctors probe my body with
slivers and saucers of steel.
Postmen take notes.
Maybe this is my year
for a new birthday suit.
They are less daring than they look,
and no one knows what I know
about my hands and balls and joints.
Ah, these collapsable lapses,
these fold-away faults.
In the bargain basement
of my mind I find
my portable plug-in electric chair.
I squeal — and ignite.
And there is no sleep
in its ghastly light
*