Insomnia

These night-shift fragments
clamor against my skull,
angry, coughing men in the express lane
expecting to be served, sealed, and sent
rolling blind onto the highway.
But, I see what they were, once--
comprised of creamy wonder-fathoms--
against how they shuffle now,
bedraggled, stomping off more years yet
until their heads reflect the smallest suns,
and still they’re half-gone from here,
with what they could be shrouded
by a jagged strain of wanderlust,
a lemming-love to leap
from the safe hush-hush
of supermarket dreams.