FIREWORKS 

Blind with sleep I thrash away

At the trailing edges of the night

To train the corners of my failing sight,

For just a second, at the day,

 

Long enough to catch the snows

My bloodshot pupils fabricate

Before reverting to the state 

Which falling barometers impose

 

(Pressing fingers to my lids,

I try to see the storm’s display, 

But instead the reddened cloisonné

Of veins’ explosive grids 

 

Illuminates imaginary skies 

With fire, deep inside my eyes).