Poem: Insomnia, part whatever

These hot nights burning with stars. I am
too weary for sleep, drawn out on a tide
all bones and debris. The beating waves —
you can set a rhythm by them, but
nothing o nothing will lure me to sleep

but graves and exhaustion. In daylight hours
I pay my way with smiles and courtesies
sinking a soul in debt. At night, those debts
come due, the ledger demands its tally
the thin moon rocking a restless cradle —