(no somnabulation)

intuitively not only
is it I
who lay
on the edge
of infinite sleep.
Stretched within
the cavernous sin
the carnivorous
waiting without
Minuscule, microscopic
filled with doubt
on every topic,
where the worries
long suppressed
aging, ailing,
yet fashionably dressed,
edge they like I
through the coldest season
but unlike they I know
the reason.

Dr T.P. Wilkinson writes, teaches History and English, directs theatre and coaches cricket between the cradles of Heine and Saramago. He is author of Unbecoming American: A War Memoir and also Church Clothes, Land, Mission and the End of Apartheid in South Africa. Read other articles by T.P..