Whistling Under The Moon Poem by MARINA GIPPS

Some of us have been blessed with the bankruptcy
Of awakening with dust in our eyes.

Not me, for I am hardly human you say.
Does it please you that I am one of the forgotten
Who populates your sleep?

This question becomes refrain:
An endless repetitive snowfall with no boundaries.
Where my pupils reel in a terrain
Only to be recounted
Hours after tea with dead relatives.

Oh, the flotsam of a sugar cube.
Oh, ingenious and discourteous sleep.