Atlas of Small Hours

Insomnia draws maps no one asked to keep:
the hallway’s pale river, the fridge’s low star.

Three o’clock has its own weather, thin and blue.
Thoughts arrive like trains that will not stop.

I name the rooms again, as if naming
could make a country small enough to sleep in.

Toward dawn the atlas folds itself away.
I close my eyes on a coast I almost reached.