a nightly routine fit for a rat king:
nesting sheets in a non-Euclidean braid
or haggling with hair that wants to circumvent itself.
the toothpaste must be locked in a labyrinth
the way it refuses to respond to muster,
and don’t you think
that stars have never had a luster, shiny beads of night sweats
and that unsleeping thoughts cloud
like a magnet in an oven hot.
blue phone glow will fester
out your eyeballs
and aids will rot
the next day,
and more you struggle, the more invested,
the less and less you get rested.