[wpaudio url=”/audio/june11/Adumbrate.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]
Fever holds me beneath the surface
of sheets that must be washed daily.

To drown in sleep is a science
that must be perfected:

thin breaths and tired arms,
so that thrashing becomes impossible.

After the second death
and the third so quickly following

I should have made it a fourth,
but now it is too far removed. So,

I tiptoe in the creaky-floored
house of sleeplessness.

When, at 6, I saw a man
fail at flying and die

a shadow sewed itself inside
my eyelids, which tremble like ghosts.