No mortal ever learns to go to sleep definitively.  No baby， animal or

    vegetable， intends to sink his vehicle in so soundless a lake.  In such

    cloudy houses， shadows take the shape of something "put to sleep." Any

    oblivion is a field or maze a creature grazes in for private reasons. The

    edible flower taken from its bed to the table expires on your tongue， and

    this is what we mean by sense of night and utterly internal to itself.

    To go to sleep， I think of the bodies in their reservoirs， painstakingly

    changing from opaque to phosphorescent.  How all the while distracted

    Nature pours a perfect solvent on their experiment.  I take a half-pill， a

    paradigm ignites， a moving sign in rain.  I take a whole， the flame grows

    lower.  One and a quarter， it's just a flicker.  No sense asking who I am

    then.  Swinging from its dead twig in a bush， the aura-like cocoon， lit up

    by winter sun- the least of its worries the worm.