The night is futile,
as is any attempt to survive;
to sleep is neither Being nor Nothing—
Being: unreal, impossible, Truly—
The sleeper with no agency does not mind
that the story is through and only to them is new—
such as lands where sun and moon combine
such as memories and hope divine—
It is a mystery that sometimes lingers
and to the mundane world adds a layer
what is quiet and crystal clear—
One finds along the hierarchies of desperation.
Such is one thing a human needs
that is a gift for their seventeenth—
and so on, and so on, until they retire:
the gift of anger and sleeplessness—
let them kids run mad, tired with hunger
struggling against the wind and fall into slumber
being nothing and everything and some other thing
so in waking they might bring a Possible Middle Thing—
let them scream their heads off in dreams awake,
in literal figures with noises no one understands
and let no one care; no, do not bother.
The night is structured not for survival.