“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.