“You’re not leaving me alone down here,” it speaks, calling up from a trench between me and sleep.
I try to bypass and ignore, to no avail; I curse and implore, but rest is derailed.
I cannot fall asleep so down instead, my soul to keep but not my head.
I dig around the edges, pry with fingertips, try to get leverage, wonder what it even is.
I resign myself to crawling underneath, coated in mud, finding it hard to breathe.
I lift with arms and legs, my back on the ground; “Now you know my weight,” it says, starting to settle down.
I push it over and out, roll my sore body on its side to see. Then I jot down the name of the one disturbing me.