Desperation is not grating like thimbles,
together, when the early morning lawn
converses with the keen blade of its barber.
No, noise splits a dream where a dream would enter
lapsing in its spitted breaths, tumbling in its
fumble for water —
where each line gets longer and longer.
I pierce the hide of the thimble sometimes,
its metal carapace cast in bronze,
pocked like the hind legs of a mother toad.
I sting my finger in its shield — I curse.
The needle is always meant for elsewhere.
These are the torpid days that permit a daydream
or two. In my distended utopia the nightdreams
would as easily reign. Conscious in unconscious head,
the bedded pillow tempts a scythe to strike
with no blood to edit in the morning.
Formula for desperation: sleep without waking
or upon waking, head
to the penance box. The silver thread illuminates
thumb and needle
with a muttered flare of reality.
You string — you prick —
but you do not —
you do not
fall asleep.

Chen Gu