SWEEPING/SLEEPING AGAIN

Lost, this.

Lost, thus.

Sleep wages

a feeble war

to defy her armor.

Her edges pull down

a tent of 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.

I am sweeping, this.

Sweeping, thus.

The broken china

and depression

glass lemon lime

pink amber

shards to scoop into

tomorrow’s dustbin

or the garden bed’s

cheerful mosaic (music).

Wearing the sweater-shawl

my father darned

or his flannel jacket

of blues and grays

the colors of 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—

an outlaw of the future

tempting the impossible.

Don’t look so afraid.

I am reaping, this.

Weeding the meaningless

and riffraff

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 petrified.

Tomorrow I shall awake

like you

and forget

all I need.

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