I do not nap unless I’m deathly sick:
the day is for working, not rest;
only at night can we touch, flame to wick.

Hear the clock and hear my heart, how they tick
as though at some greater being’s behest;
I do not nap unless I’m deathly sick.

By morning all has burned, the world slick
with tears and walking, mournfully, two abreast
to the grave: only at night can we touch, flame to wick.

Alone in bed, afternoon’s shadows seem to lick
every wound I carry, from my thighs to my chest;
I do not nap unless I’m deathly sick.

If you hear me napping, come quick,
though fate—If there is fate—may protest
that only at night can we touch, flame to wick.

I once promised that poets could trick
Orion into thinking it’s noon. Please, let me rest.
I do not nap unless I’m deathly sick;
only at night can we touch, flame to wick.