Sleeping Stone

Last night I slept like a stone;

a flint whose sparks lit the night

and woke me every hour.

This sharp-edged sleep

rent the sheets

and left blood on them

- though no elders inspected

the linen this morning.

 
The sparks became stars

and left before dawn.

I changed the sheets:

tonight I'll count

lithographic sheep

and hope for oblivious peace.