Restless Leg Syndrome

The evening winged like an ant,

frantic and ill with the burden of flight

and a desire – unfamiliar –

for things beyond its light.

An ill and an expensive sleep,

all twitch and haul and fling,

shadowing, shouldering on

the discontent that mornings bring:

the second skin rolls off in flakes,

the wings drop off the chain,

the large head is aching then;

the six thighs crawling with pain.

Fields of seablush and camas lily;
fields we knew when the world was young.