Harmony (Sleep) by Aaron Flynn

Dawn dawns, the bleakness
of rheumy eyes, the bleariness
of banished shadow.
In the machine
as the copier sputters into action, dead white
light passing over and above, taking half a long
rotation to pass. Passover.
Rather pass out, or at Least
the desire to.
To sleep: no more.
To put an end to the en masse tiny aches of Awake
and bask
in the healing blanket of sleep,
to feel it trail through your fingers.
Smouldering, spangling sunlight playing
along your skin,
through your fingers
as would sweet thick water
to those
dying of thirst.