flyover in poetry

I’ve lived in the city that cannot sleep
(no matter how many drugs it takes to try and get there)
I’ve lived in the city lost inside dreams of itself
(having eaten the lotus flower and drifted into oblivion)
and now I look for what the in-between of those might be
(on that edge, on that ledge between awake and slumber)
where I weak and weary lumber
waking up with a start as if
I was falling off a cliff
because I am
because I did