Eating the Pickle at the End

I’m writing a poem
to help me sleep

I’ll write the title last
Like eating the pickle
at the very end

I can’t sleep
I never learned how

But the words always explain
the direction blood flows
and how fast

In there,
with that delicious pickled quiet

In there I feel kind
and never tired
The blood moves evenly

Poems can last whole days
as dreams cover mountains

I feel no worry
about the speed of my blood
in there

Maybe untitled is best
This only makes me stay awake