No mortal ever learns to go to sleep definitively¹.  No baby， animal or

    vegetable， intends to sink his vehicle in so soundless a lake.  In such

    cloudy houses， shadows take the shape of something "put to sleep." Any

    oblivion is a field or maze² a creature grazes in for private reasons. The

    edible³ flower taken from its bed to the table expires on your tongue， and

    this is what we mean by sense of night and utterly⁴ internal to itself.

    To go to sleep， I think of the bodies in their reservoirs， painstakingly⁵

    changing from opaque⁶ to phosphorescent.  How all the while distracted

    Nature pours a perfect solvent⁷ on their experiment.  I take a half-pill， a

    paradigm⁸ ignites， a moving sign in rain.  I take a whole， the flame grows

    lower.  One and a quarter， it's just a flicker⁹.  No sense asking who I am

    then.  Swinging from its dead twig¹⁰ in a bush， the aura-like cocoon¹¹， lit up

    by winter sun- the least of its worries the worm.