Night, but (or a Shameless Rip-off)

I feel no sleep coming on. Tomorrow is teaching. My lunch is packed, the Milo mix already in a glass on a white tray. Is this insomnia or plain longing? I want this to go out of fashion like Yeat's old song. I want tomorrow. I want to meet Paul Muldoon and ask him about the dry spells--how? What? Stymy! O wariness, weariness, pass by!