I cannot count the number of nights I've lain awake, staring at my ceiling, trying to convince myself I should be navigating Dreamland. Matwichuk captures this perturbing feeling skillfully and crafts it into a witty poem that is convincing, albiet a bit incomplete. The lines of the poems are squished together into the paragraph (or prose) form that so attracts me, due to its clarity and readability. In fact, this poem could easily be disguised as prose. Without staggering line breaks, the poem reads smoothly and has an eerie calming affect, despite the restless subject matter. There is no clear conclusion to the issue of insomnia, just a simple restating of the pertaining problem, making the piece seem unfinished. Still, I find the vivid images ("TV fills with snow," "small bells of your keychain through the fog") and drifting thoughts relatable and comforting.
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April 2015
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