For in That Sleep of Death What Dreams May Come

In the Solid Solitude of a Dreamer

My sleepy eyes, your quiet little smile, the heavy evening over us like a sheet--no, not a sheet, over us like a casket that we must carry into the burial of the night, the hours dug out as by the spade of want and need. Prayers for the morning by the forward pulse of our lips and their secret names that part backward, out of rooms and into the dream of a bedroom. There it be that my sleepy eyes whisper out through the fog of sense to find you, that which it seeks, that which appears there for it. A tremor possessed hesitance when across does this feeling take you by the face, blooming your cheeks and reflexes pull like a curtain and the actors dance upon the merciless stage. Wish I to close my eyes and invite gravity to wrap its hold tight about me, press these rhythms dry from the sponge that beats nervously in the closet of my chest. Take care to note my shade, make haste to observe its shift, its discord, its improvised maladjustment and obscurity; from whatever clarity of light it may find an object from which to cast its contrasting signature. Hollow me from that quiet smile, make louder your worry, your distrust, your instinct and its prejudiced prophesy. As my eyes beg to close, shut you out and myself within myself--A perfect dream will make true desires of me till the dawn, my dawn and the dusk of my sleep.