By Peter Halstead

Blind with sleep I thrash away
At the trailing edges of the night
To train the corners of my failing sight,
For just a second, at the day,

Long enough to catch the snows
My bloodshot pupils fabricate
Before reverting to the state
Which falling barometers impose

(Pressing fingers to my lids,
I try to see the storm’s display,
But instead the reddened cloisonné
Of veins’ explosive grids

Illuminates imaginary skies
With fire, deep inside my eyes).

January 6th, 1997

March 20th, 1997

Tippet Alley
April 17th, 2016