I can’t tell of the lack of sleep
that fits over me like a glove
made from porcupine quills.
Of all the ills of this here island,
this one is the biggest.
Sometimes a home is the wrong foot.
And a house…

We’ll calculate that later,
for the swarms of dizzy insects
that are part and parcel
of our end days prophesying
have finally arrived by moonbeam
to eat up our entrails.
Please understand that
I’m only nauseated because
it’s my default mode.

I don’t want to play these games any longer,
the ones played with pins and needles
and deepening ennui
the color of a winter storm.
The violence just looks
too good on me.

-r. miller

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