It's been sixty days
Since the black sky opened up the food-gates
Fell down hard on the sun-stained fair-grounds
Held back any
Recollection
Of the bloodshed
Somehow
And now
This unending rain
Stopping short on the surface of the watery graves
Is another, even nicer, simpler sort of silence these days
Don't be so afraid of the insomnia plague
This is what he wrote in the ripped-up note:
I've become something even less than a ghost
Even more of a though, I've become a mirage
I'm the shaky air encircling the flickering flame
I'm the white wall swallowing the window frame
Don't be so afraid of the insomnia plague