sick with waiting

Insomnia, you say, is good for me. Unloved by sleep, I fly wide-eyed
To wakefulness--into a dark that isn't so black then, letting those
Ghosts from the exiling light enter. They're not entirely welcome

Night visitors, though one of them is no dream at all, is maybe--come
To think of it--the only true one among them: that remembered red dress
Fluttering empty sleeves; blackboard, desks, a clock on the wall. So

We close the door and wait. Nothing doing: suitcases everywhere
And I can't find my shoes. Tears, then, and a change of light, seeming
To empty the air of air. Dumbstruck suddenly, faces flat against glass:

Out there the world, its wildflash mirages. The room sick with waiting.

[Eamon Grennan {1941- }, 'Insomnia' from The Quick of It]