At night my eyelids flutter like birds—

crazy ones, like in Hitchcock.

Thought upon thought

upon thought lines up in my head

like ducks to be shot at the fair.

The ozone layer—my friend

who hasn’t called—did I send 

the Visa bill? My poor brain

is the carrion the vultures of worry

swoop down on and cover 

with their big black wings.

The ant-pile hours accumulate.

I see the digital numbers change

like a pattern of red-hot pokers

rearranged. The smoldering coals in my head

still burn. In my febrile movements

I feel the agony of a dying insect

and the uselessness. Trapped

in the flypaper sheet

I gaze at the calm leaves,

extinguished windows,

dumb pale moon,

and wish I could wake up the world.

Kate Deimling is a poet, writer, and translator from French. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Slant, Tar River Poetry, I-70 Review, Notre Dame Review, Midwest Quarterly, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Plainsongs, Crosswinds Poetry Journal, and other magazines. She lives with her family in Brooklyn, New York and is an assistant poetry editor for Bracken.