How do you keep the poetry you write from enameling your sleep?
What is Poemosity, you ask?
If you have to ask, then you
probably wouldn't understand the answer, anyway.
It's that moment when you can't sleep
because all of those words are
swirling and twirling around inside your head
like great black bats, sonar intact,
and you know that it
will take more than
a little effort put them to sleep.
Their craving will only be satisfied
with a clean white slate.
Capture them on paper
and then you can finally fall sleep.
Words drip from the end of my pencil.
Some people sleep
with a glass of water
by their bed.
All I need to keep the Poemosity away
are a pencil and a composition book
I bought at Wal-Mart for 10¢
but now has become invaluable,
as I close the cover
on yet another night.
Cautiously, I check.
They're still there,
caught between its austere, pristine pages,
with its sticky web of straight blue lines
Like those creatures I once saw in
"The Book of Pressed Fairies."
Then I hear the dreams
arriving on the great pale green wings
of Luna moths.
No longer afraid, they set up their arcade
and begin to peddle their wares.
For just a tuppance I purchase a parcel,
a dram of dream,
and row off into the sea of black ink.
Just one more night of keeping
The Poemosity Bats at bay.