This was not a day that called for ellipsis –
rather, the world demanded firm declarations of certainty
as if I wasn’t also becoming an insomniac –
yet the dream I woke up with slipped past the periods
and became a part of my waking mind.

And the line became blurred,
just as it does, more and more
each day, between the declarations
and the questions. The commas began to run into one another, like
trains whose conductors were blind to the other’s existence.

This day did not call for ellipsis, but
that’s all I was able to give. Thus, I lie still
in the bed as the heat of summer overtakes me again.
And I am helpless, as I become victim
to a never-ending interrogation. Is this what it means
to sleep?