Just inside of sleep

 

Just inside of sleep

still conscious of the sheets, snow

falling and moonlight.

 

A stranger crosses

my grandmother’s shaded lawn

fifty years ago.

 

This is the alchemy.

Reincarnation and

revelation.  Eyes open

 

in the dark. My love

breathing beside me. Chill breeze

from the cracked open window.

 

 

It was just my imagination

Sometimes sitting still, disappearing, I recall the experience of Time as a child.

In  the quiet living room drinking a cup of coffee before the start of a busy day I remember; I wanted to be liked, win the race, be a superhero and Lipton soup salesman like my dad. Nothing was crucial. But I could drown in the shower or die in the dark. Something was always under the bed. I believed in God and my parents and that everything would be alright. It was just my imagination.

And I was not responsible.

 

 

 

Passions

We find. Grip and squeeze. Paint our faces dance

grow feathers and fly. Preoccupy. Become.

 

Obsessed. Forgotten.

 

Sound of saltwater licking dark stone,

bleached white roots and branch. Drift and sway.

 

Skin shed. Antlers dropped damp and spotted green.

Rusty spikes. Tin cans, porcelain shards and bottles.

 

That drawing on the wall. This poem.

 

These words. Beach-glass and broken shell strung

on fishing line or binder twine and worn

 

around the neck

for one meteor-showered moment.