Lost, this.
Lost, thus.
Goddess of sleep
descends.
Stream-of-consciousness
wages a feeble war
to defy
her armor.
Her edges pull down
A tent for the now-superior
stupor.
The brain—an organ
of electro-chemical
relationships,
toxic or devoid.
Transactions
missing
syn-
apses,
useless
syntax.
The final lime green flickers
of fireflies, a sad excuse
to peel the eyes
for awareness.
I am sweeping, this.
Sweeping, thus.
The broken china
and depression glass
lemon lime pink amber
shards to scoop up into
tomorrow’s dustbin
or the garden bed’s
cheerful mosaic (music).
Wearing the sweater-shawl
my father darned
or the flannel jacket of blues and grays
like his stormy eyes—
the jacket from too-many days
in the hospital, too few of hospice.
I am sweeping, thus.
To stay busy, distracted
from too many storms
on the encroaching
horizon
beckoning
their chaos.
I have seen you, too,
at the dangerous peripheries
of imagination. An outlaw
to tell the future.
Tempting the impossible.
Don’t look so afraid.
I am reaping, this.
Weeding the meaningless
and riffraff, flotsam
and jetsam after the ship
crash
into the pillar-stones.
Tomorrow I shall plant new
ideas and things
I’ll dream tonight
when sleep comes
with her white-down
wings
comforting the lost,
the downtrodden,
the petrified.
Tomorrow I shall awake
like you
and forget
all I need.