how i live now

beneath the tilted moon,
fingers scurry across a midnight landscape
of rattling crossroads and the cracked mutters of leafless trees.

poetry has fled, sinking into the valleys between the keys,
while i ransack the shallow graves of my notebooks
for an equation to slow the sunrise.

sleep is a dream i've barely begun to remember,
while lying within winter sheets creased with disappointment.
the alarm clock's vindictive shriek announces the dawn of monday and masochism.

unlike mes devoirs, the hollows beneath my eyes need no translation.