In my nest of stones I have not slept. Upstairs the neighbors fight over how best to spend their time as it  slips silently through the space between their fingers.   As the last grains fall it seems reasonable to be present for those hours remaining.  The windows are dark in the flat  across the way   but for a lamp shrouded in a rose colored scarf.  Stirred by the sound of an ocean breeze I imagine I am a pale warrior charged with the safety of sleeping birds as a cat passes casually by, eyeing them from a wire fence.  At last when  dawn  climbs above the ocean, deep amber radiates the shore,  the color of my lover’s eyes when aroused.  Those subtle  hues of gold  that glint and sparkle in my half empty glass.  I spend my  night rearranging decaying books,  drifting down smoke filled halls,  pillaging my mind…