I am counting sheep again
The glaring opalescence of their round jolliness taunting me
Round like the pillows I have beaten with my tossing
Round like the palpable absence of my lover’s breasts
Prancing, those well rested babes at play, jolly
Twirling around my head until I am dizzy
And choking on this fatigue
Proxy for the early-bird’s insomnia
I want to take the pretty sheep out back and slaughter them.
Sheer away the fluff until there is nothing but
the pale, sickly puniness of their emasculated bodies.
Knit myself a blanket of woolly dreams so I can wrap up in night and sleep.
But I am no killer, a little squeamish around blood
Besides, I've been told my needle point needs some work.
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