Night Fighting

This is the night,
shoving my body aside,
mainlining my brain
with thoughts and fears
best left til morning.
This is the night,
denying soft, swaddling clothes,
pummelling me with dark fists
that offer no return,
and nothing to wrestle but my self.
This is the night ,
the clarity of not yet morning
when fog is lifted from my dream-logged mind
and I am startled to wakeful watching
by scuttling scenes of what might be,
what could have been.
This is the night
turned hard.
No black-bandaged softness,
no nestling in snuggeries here.
This is the night
and me,
the two of us
tug-o-warring sleep.

(With thanks again to Dylan Thomas!)