Insomnia

Where was peace?
It didn’t come last night.
I turned and stretched
and fell off boulders.
No conclusive dream,
no wound,
that by itself could heal.
Just the drifting of a boat,
without rudder,
insomnia,
a holiday retreat in hell,
with no restrictions on class
or belief.
I was denied a good night’s rest,
as if a tax were being paid,
a penitence for mortality,
for the vulnerability of age,
for being alive,
for having no place to go.