Like an abacus tallying crimes, counting steps to the gallows of insomnia listening to my breath exhale, memories I have slain,
counting steps like a pendulum do, echoing the silence of the rain dripping through my mind’s filter, unraveling before the tally begins anew
— these ropes of restless dreams tied tight beneath my chin,
keeping me awake like a fugitive counting ceiling cracks
like fresh fingers tracing the numbers back to zero,
another knot in the noose of night
before the exodus off dawn’s reprieve, each grain from the hourglass glued to my eyelids before my pillow became the judge and jury
— four hundred and seventy-two sheep leaping into the furnace,
before chapter two
