Her insomnia lay about her like so much therapy
inert and hindering
useless and persistent
mocking her to change

Her insomnia hung her down like someone else’s luggage
filling her with bus-boy exasperation

Why should she
hang on to these things?

Her insomnia had a handle on her stomach
ladelling from it her impatience like life
from a bog

She sat up
as she would lie down also
She lay down even as she sat up also

Something like a prison her head lay angry

Something  like a nest long left
in a tree
smiling its grief
through the leaves