A fan of black,
I lie peaceful, half-conscious,
Ensconced
In the damp
Of the gritty, cold
Sidewalk cement...
Metamorphosing,
It could be said, with my butterfly
Wings of taped-on paper.
Fragile and crinkly,
My skin has become translucent,
Reminiscent of peeled grapes.

I hover, ghostly,
In the bright reflected space
Between double window-panes.
I can feel the timeout,
Reach the apogee of breathing
Trapped and silent in the kitchen light,
My fingers pale, probing
Under my flaking skin.
The space is stretching, growing,
Agonized with acidic mezzo moaning
And the static close memories
That are all too real for an insomniac.