Empty Carnivals and Sleep

Three AM mornings-
coffee books and her
fireflies usher into
my stomach tenderly,
like a pleasant lullaby
filling my small ears.

By heavens I tell you
by dawn it burns me;
like evening vodka slitting
down my sore throat.

Is that how you fall asleep?

The pulse of vintage longing
ticks like the clock of a room
that rocks silhouettes to
slumbers- this is the history
of my night, finally you anchor
me down to a sad sleep.

~Atta K.

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