sleepstealers

Of all the nights to be asleep it should be tonight and these fingerless green woolen gloves were made to pull back bowstrings and to slay leafcrunchers and limblickers and my neck is sore from shaking and we finished reading one book aloud and now we are on to the denser second the better second and we have no idea what the third volume will contain at least i don't know and i think that if i make it to seventy will my fingers look like little oak trunks and will my toes alter the shape of the houseshoes that i will undoubtedly wear over oriental rugs and tiny barking hounds and my ears will sprout hair like soy stalks spry spears but compacted and flayed a little at the top in dark spinachy fireworks and of all the nights to be asleep it should be tonight and these fingers want to wander partly and be still mostly and part moistly and mostly partition mossy parapets into the ashen haze curling outwards from the besieged tower of soulful internalities and heartfelt heart feeling and intangible typewritten ploys and spools unfurled and banners laid at the conquerors' feet with nails that need be trimmed daily and grimly grime their way into blackness like mold like desert eclipses sheathed in velvet tubes of obsidian.