Someone tethered the moon to a harbor of disappointment.
Someone offered rain to dilute the argument of sleep.
Staying on course to sun-fall required the bravery of warriors who don’t believe in war.
The day betrayed with a weariness of children up too late who can’t sleep.
Tell the neurosurgeon you want wings.
Dinner, an act of kindness on the floor of imagination’s wind-fall.
None of this useful except for the redemption of clocks.
Meaning took its suitcase to a strange waiting room.
Someone said you should decorate doubt with composure.
That the moon would return its light on a silver plate of promise.