Dream Song

not a lullaby, not a goddamned tune,

dream is an open window,

dream the sound of tires on blacktop,

the harsh kiss of a shotglass.

In the night the foxes pause

to sniff the day's passing. Owls

keep their eyes open while

turkeys mumble like pear-shaped,

red-eyed insomniacs stuck in a tree.

Maybe moving to the mountains

was a mistake.

At the beach house, salty tongued,

I have closed my eyes and tried

to imagine waves, one after another.

But they form a silent relentless flood.

Night with a tooth of foam, the

shoulder of god, a wet crash of thunder.

Is that the tide? Every six hours

another inhalation.

We can blame this on age, maybe,

shrinking bladders and achy bones.

I read somewhere that babies and

elderly don't need as much sleep.

Or maybe I am wrong and it is proven

infants and infirm need MORE sleep.

Whatever.

I just know that if you go under in darkness,

pray you are sleeping.

Meniscus Literary Journal

Issue 12.1