The Well of Sleep

Many evenings as I approach the abyss,
The well of sleep,
My body is racked with painful spasms,
As if I'm nearing the event horizon
That fringes a singularity,
And I'm being torn apart.
My legs go one way, my torso another,
My hands freeze up--they're no better than talons.
The contraction-conniptions may last a minute,
But more often as long as a quarter-hour,
And no relief comes from change of diet,
Supplements, long soaks, copious quaffs,
Stretching, or folksy remedies.
On those occasions when I do fall asleep
With a rapid descent, and I cross that boundary
Meteorically, ere the bends set in,
The change of altitude doesn't cramp me:
My brain shuts down those troublesome muscles
If given the chance.
But if I stay conscious and drift along,
If I spiral down like a hawk or glider,
I tend to kink and crumple and thrash,
A bed-bound convulsive contortionist;
And after midnight, should a foot go numb
Or a lazy limb curl askew,
I, like Neptune, jet out of the depths
To begin the whole process anew.