After watered plants
and winding clocks,
stale sheets shroud us,
our lungs fill
with night-scented stock.

After stomachs
bare as kitchen cupboards
groan like the fridge,
pipes gurgle
as the house settles.

After lights out
dogs bark in the street,
footsteps home from the pub,
the drone of postal planes
lullabies our slumber.

After sheep counted,
hair a millimetre longer,
talk of us will fade,
we insomniacs will
finally sleep, invisible.

Patrik Gryst


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