Norwegian insomnia

In Troms?, the midnight sunlight punctured my head like
the diagonal line through that "o". And so, it was mid-July:
by then I know the darkathon at the end of November's tunnel is

on the horizon, and the sun won't rise above it. I'll sleep like
a squirrel, with a secret - which, by the way, gnaws away,
won't be tear-gassed out with ciggy smoke, the scotch can't

scotch it. Let me count the ways I have tried to get shut-eye
in this twenty-four-hour daylight dispensary. Let's see: I
counted a New Zealand of sheep that contracted scrapie, smiled

with crazy teeth, then came running at me; various abortive
attempts to keep the rays at bay - I've tucked up the window in
a blanket, then like my former self, went from model dad, picture

of mental health, to nailing it with wood. A song by the Stones
in my cheap headphones told me to paint it black. I did. No good.
Norway's counterfeit day was kicking my head in. My thoughts

were salads tossing, milk turning. The sunburning question: would
the polar night be an end to my plight? Or would I be left bolt
upright
in bed: still only my past for company, associated fear and
guilt,

this hallucinogenic wallpaper, the grim pattern on the quilt: the
flecks of blood resembling the acne-ridden face of my dead boy?
All this, again; but in the ceaseless, trembling night, 'til January
10?