Insomnia

The way, from 30,000 feet, the earth
             looks like marble, or sorghum swirled
in a batter, beaten and mixed up,
             this is how it is in the beginning
of the middle of the night.
             We think we need miracles
but it doesn't have to be
             parachutes opening, or the chemistry of yeast.
Why not my life as sawdust
             layered over a concrete floor, or the muddied
light of rain puddled in a footprint,
             or an olive ground into white linen?
How can we resist waking?
             The night is a lie whispered
in our ears, the breath perfumed
             with the scent of fresh peaches
and only a hint of hurt in the hard, bitter pit,
             a dark bruise rooted in light.

Copyright © 2004 Rick Mulkey All rights reserved
from The Literary Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission