Insomnia scoops eyes from hollows, the better to see you with; strips skin and sky of constellations; licks innermost with toxic tongues. Sews daytime shut. Bundles, with shreds of night, old socks, a fright or two; pours petrol over. Strikes a pose in glaring light.
I beg, this witching hour, for a count of silence and a hundredweight of swoon.