Insomnia

My eyes flicker to the broken wing of the horse fly on the vanity. sandpaper. It's noon, no maybe it's 5:00, who cares, pour my bath and leave me alone. Cold porcelain teases my skin, it feels good but it starts a shock through me. pain. I can't tell if the lamp is on, what is making that shadow? An insane murderer, ready to pounce. It's only Lucy, she comes often. Sometimes I smell Saco Bay, beaches and suicide and whatnot. A quarter exposes my red lined eyes to myself. It's not like I can help it. The Bible stares at me underneath the horse fly now, bring it to me, Lucy. Shoot, the lamp went out, no the sun came up. Now I will dream. black. Moonlight Sonata and whiskey linger on the bed. A slam jolts me, oh, it's only my pulse. That Mandarin bracelet is stuck to the door knob. I was born blind, but now I am never, unless you count blinking. A ballet of howls and termites are my sheep. Lighthouse fireflies lure my whispers, I'm not crazy you know. truth.

Oh my desire to go to Edith Wharton's estate.

A familiar face stumbles
onto her. Intoxicated. She supports,
Drunken complaints.
“Ms. Wharton, will you sign my copy?”
Her name plastered in the air,
no smudged glass to look through.
Lights, not language. He is a trophy,
liquor and foam dribble down her
collar. Half conscious he sings.
A mailbox overgrown with elite parties. Paper
blessed by her pen’s touch. She knows.
Champagne in one hand, New York in the other.
Three steps on the front porch. She turns
his key. Perhaps he will write a whiskey
lullaby, prize-winning.

Statements in her locket, the billboard is painted white.