clock-warning digital-red one-twenty-three I ought to be abed, not hunched insanely watching contortions of smooth-swathed wax wrapping pale-flicker thoughts, chasing elusive facts with a mashed mind bouncing off the walls my bed of lace-edged comfort calls give in with grace, capitulate to sleep and rest, acceptance of Fate, a morning of sanity, restlessness quelled, hope for movement of spirit, and broken spellsnext poem