Numb, An Author

numb as a clock
with a drawn face
haunted by my beats
numb an author
uninvented by sleep
broken arm
uninvented by sleep
a tumbling wheel
forming patterns in the sand
whirling, uneven
a bruise going deeper within
releasing unhappiness
it’s work but not completed
but what could be left
what corner is kept
my fever
a cloud that thunders a fiction about
you
spoiled that which was good
of any of it
and seizes my moments
both scolding and embracing
collides with my silence
ungraciously devolving
and I give it a sign
I surely am disarranged by sleep
wear me away into
my patterns in the sand
whirling, uneven
a bruise going deeper within