The sleep mask
is satin, smooth, and black.
It sleeps cool over my eyes
and erases three a.m.
distractions—
long-legged shadows
from the chair in the path
of the night light,
the red-eyed remonstrance
of the digital clock,
the one star shouldering
through the light pollution
outside the window.
But there is no mask
to hide the hot and crumpled
sheets and the background
whirr of fans.
A neon series of lists
scrolls in my head
like the intro to Star Wars
if it happened to be
a movie about my
personal anxieties, failures,
and to-do tasks undone.
Even when I sleep,
the night is restless—
I wander a dream house
in a yellow dress,
searching—
for what?—
And always the sound
of a music box
plucking along my nerves.