Insomnia

Outside, the moon has fingers everywhere,
the canopy of stars drifts into hills,
fools-gold against the granite's stubborn back.
The slanting rain rattles on window panes,
but you sleep on, tucked into secret dreams.

Two in the morning: wide-eyed weariness
presses thoughts against a world of slates.
Four in the morning: finally to slip,
like sand between stone gaps, to murky sleep,
to liquid dreams oblivious as rain.