The fever breaks. 
It’s seventy, I put on a coat, 
order hot and cold coffees, 

get regular but bad sleep— 
counting sheep never helped me. 
I get bored and follow the third one I see, 

curious where they end up after 
floating over that little fence for me. 
They haven’t run out of pasture, 

yet. It’s probably me. Nervous  
to think too closely of anything 
and influence my own dreams. 

A barn, didn’t we pass 
some of those? Another fence, 
don’t you have one of those? 

I buy my wines in threes 
so one may stand out, 
be longed for, and resisted 

sufficiently. I could delay this 
indefinitely. Why 
were you so nice to me? 

I make it a project to watch 
at least three horror movies 
a week. I’m still scared 

by every headless mannequin I see. 
The redder reds and bluer greens of film 
run their way into my sleep. Happily led 

and misled, demure lamb, me. I can’t be 
held responsible. It must be said 
I tried my best. No, I didn’t notice you 

there, waiting in the center of every dream. 
Sometimes, watching horror is just about watching 
a great actress give the performance of her life 

and carry, alone, the whole story.