An aneurysm spurting in my skull –
Burst red balloon for which the cherubs weep.
If I could weep, I could as soon be lulled
Within the cinders of this blanket heap.
A girl could wring this heat, though once abreast,
Having earned my rest, I’d beg her to leave
Unless… but no, not her, not tonight, no, lest
The soaked-through sheets entwine us, dumb in love.
Then, would I slit my palms shucking shells,
Staining oyster brains in crimson relief,
And sit stringing pearls to gate rapture’s realm?
O, the spurting aneurysm of love.
Lord, give me Sleep before the morning’s leap.
Let girls and cherubs bitter weep, but give me Sleep.