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