‘It cannot be true,’ he says – and he hopes that is true –
‘that I’ve lain awake half the night, and I’ve sleepwalked the other.’
‘Half,’ he adds pedantically, as true pedants do.
He misses the blanket he’d discarded in fear it would smother
his soul if he slept. He watches his fingers turn blue
with his red eyes shut tight, if that’s possible, and he implores
the god Morpheus to aid him in becoming a mammal that snores.
Earth Tourist
recently posted poems by alan reynolds
Earth Tourist 
Oh, wow. I can relate. I hate nights like that and you portrayed it well in this poem.
Thanks. Nights like that do tire the days/daze.
So true,especially about the blanket. If only our old white blanket was whole. Come Morpheus! Sent from my iPad
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It’s all, one hears, in the Enunciation.
The blanket’s call to Morpheus has the sound
(from self muffling in its sleep anticipation)
of ‘Moths, eat us’ – and moths do. To sleep thus gowned
in a moth-holed wrap negates propitiation
to Morpheus who won’t shift the covers round
to welcome sleep although one does get tired
when instead of getting sleepy one gets wired.