Too many things happen during the time between
your final yawn and the first moment at which
your final fall occurs. Some have the luxury

of a slow lullaby, sung to the unpitched
whirring of the electric fan above,
hypnotizing them away from the ditch

that others fall into, like falling in love:
you think you're holding out well without
it, and then the gaping absence hovers
  
out of its silence, asserting the drought
unwittingly being brewed while you enjoyed
the time you thought you were well fraught
  
with self-sufficiency. Whatever it is, the convoy
of your dreams sends you to your preview
of your eternal sleep; dreams are the toys
 
with which the angels play, while you
are without yourself, without which there would be
no difference between sleep and death. Few
  
angels know if a soul is asleep 
or simply departed from its house
for good. That's why some people scream,

to summon the dreams that hitherto have 
been absent, to eschew being wrongly sent
away before their time is come.