Toss and Turn

Crammed full of some perturbation, sleep jostled from its
sepulchre, the rest so badly craved torn back from its lie.
Something, thought without, comes along to startle the lier.
Tossed on the sheeted sea, each wrinkle a wave of dilemma,
nauseating in its rise and fall, green with ache, every muscle
ripped awake, the will to move yet held at yard-arm’s length;
the cramp of consciousness hales the body down. A black sea
stretches as far as the eye can see, which is not far at all but
is further off than can be fathomed in the night’s deep fall.

So the siren depths sings its call.