Graveyard Shift

I dug a trough with your bottom lip
and made a dirty cradle out of it.
Spread a minty balm over your white
thighs, and there I spent the night.

Tucked and tangled in the willow,
I taunted rest and rest did not follow.
The orchid sky and grenadier grapes
were too bright and loud for any escape.

Though if someone handed me a sphere of sleep,
swirling with ebony and death-white sheep,
I would spread it like ashes to the yawning sea.
The dark is too big, and stillness is misery.