Untitiled and probably incomplete

Sometimes at night I hear
disconcerting dreams moan in the empty, blank space
above my clown-round head, moan the low growl
of tussling cats, or growl like neighbors on that thin side
of clumpy plaster heaving and catching gasps
and good-god I'd rather not hear that, not alone,
exhausted, plaster swelling like one more
shuddering heart flaking dust, or opened palms
pushing the wooly-thick blackness in on me,
until I feel compelled to vow unwarranted silence
or chastity, broken on my next good day.
Some days I'm still ruminating long past noon
over the last nights disconcerting dream
like it was an unsatisfactory last meal,
wondering why I faltered when I flew, why that celebrity--
reenacting his warrior role--took a bigger beating
than even Hollywood would have allowed,
and why it all should stick in me like sewing pins
pulled deep by the magnetic gravity of melancholy.