There are some nights when sleep plays coy, aloof and disdainful. And all the wiles that I employ to win its service to my side are useless as wounded pride, and much more painful.

The axe-keen intent of all our
days for the brief moment lies
soft, nuzzling the breast of morning,
crooning, still sleep-besotted,
of childish pranks with angels.

A coir of angels does not help...