Fellow Snorers

We own the night.
We do—we the vampires of sound,
the blighted
bed-banishers. It is ours.
We clip our bits of sleep
into the cerebral night-life,
our walking sticks etching
the cadence
of our breath into the ground,
our ceremony of mouths open in wait
and we are redeemed:

God hears our prayers.
We are singing.