"What good is one's toil underneath the sun?"   that same indifferent sphere gave birth to the shadows   where we count the days off by headlines on the morning paper      Light pours through the transom   as wanton hearts turn endlessly in sleepless labyrinthine memory   (a passing bus shakes the whole house exposing two feet at a foot board)   what awful dregs have tired so easily! what futile repetition and longing!      In seizures we might gain true vision of all that is absolute and senseless      In a ceiling fan cadence   a pulsing mechanical presence   our bare arms prop up dull thoughts of how one sleeps through the night with all the binging and purging, snoring awakening      some may never shake their demons