Saturday, September 23, 2017
THE IS OF SLEEP
Indra spread his mantle
over my star-stippled eyes -
the palm of black on blue
tucked me under the curve of sky.
Fire fell from Agni’s lunar mane,
then rested quietly
purging all worry, erasing all pain.
I counted Gurus
leaping like sheep over the Taj Mahal,
then I tallied Lamas
scaling the great China Wall.
I flip the pillow to the cooler side
to chill my fevered cheek,
the is of sleep opens below me,
do you have big brown sleepy eyes
that make the stars come out at night?
Or do you dream
in front of your eye lids
and call it make believe?
A thousand poems have slipped away
not because the Muses are silent,
but because I am water skiing across
the face of the digital clock trapped inside
monitors in every room.