Sleep
is a tide and the moon is full. Eyelids slip, disappear under the swell, swept
deep. Travels, toils, triumphs pass; the languid limbs move, quieted, under the
liquid weight. On dry land, covers are kicked, bodies shift, sprawl, knock
pillows to the floor.
As
the light turns, so does the tide. Minds shiver up from the lunacy of dreams.
They come up in silvery pieces, in a shoal of bubbles, up to the shallows, to
bump the shore, to nestle into rock pools where the remnants of dream are
caught.
When
this mermaid finds her legs, she makes coffee, remembers only the emotive
rapidity, the cogent force of it.
Comments
I am in the presence of angels.