Give Me A Sponge, Please

To see the final hour:
each night, sleep must bite,
my shaking hands must bleed.
Band-aids and athletic wrap fail
to block the blood dripping
over the yesterday-waxed floor.
I try not to slip, of course, or be the agent
of its stain; my head cracks between the tiles
splitting hair and hairs and that sallow
skin which bubbles and brings
the pink stars to a constellation.
I turn to watch them wink but when observed,
nature becomes performance,
and I cannot help but notice guilt
begin to scrub my eyes again.
Let it roll, back to the fire.
Let it roll, back to its home.
Let it roll, back to where I become
the ashes. Buoyant in the trembling
breeze, bristled by a shiver, back
down I stare, dust billowing behind
this snowball picking up and tossing off
the broken bits of boulders.
Let it roll, against my will.
Before it bursts, I follow behind, footsteps
landing in the divots of those broken stones.
I scrub again, but my eyes cannot be spotless
with such dust beneath the dirt.