at 3am

when time is throaty and permeable
I lie awake and dream of
being asleep and dreaming

the resolute march of the kitchen clock,
domestic and reassuring,
cannot possibly countenance

the thinness of the skin
between this world and the next
or perhaps the world before

is there really another coming

tacky on my tongue
a sweet membrane of heated milk
(the oily vellum)

threatens to choke me
clagging in my throat
the soft palate panics

there will never be another sleep again
until there is again another sleep
that looks like dying