By Abhijit Menon-Sen <>

The sheep are numbered,
colour-coded; arranged
in distracting patterns
on the brink of wakefulness.

My mind unravels after them;
threads of the wrong colour,
too interesting to be ignored.

Everything conspires
to wake me as I float
towards a darkness
which eludes me.

The flesh is willing,
but the spirit
dissolves into consciousness

I want my money back.