In some dreams, nothing happens, but I feel the buzz of dots
night time wanders, and I’m still. Stumbling over creases in the linen,
silently listening (to my inner monologue arguing with itself).
“Oh shut up,” I thought, to the thoughts in my head, as if they ought turn off.
Minds don’t have a switch, and when mine has an itch
nothing happens, and I wonder
if I lie still, still enough to feel the world spin
am I going to be this wide awake
come morning, and still, I keep thinking, eyelids blinking…