Forget the talking head on your screen,
hawking sleep aids. The real reason you can’t sleep
is the dark tunnel—how it reminds you
of Mississippi John Hurt
singing,

You got to walk that lonesome valley,
You got to walk it for yourself.

All the touchstones from your past.
Your mother’s stories. Your
father’s silences. Outside the window,
the kill count mounts steadily.  

“We’re all going to die, anyway,“
you say to the glass.
Why go to the trouble of killing?
The sweet guitar
will take you into its arms.

A hoot owl will fly across your bedroom wall.
Tonight, that will be enough.