Between dreams I walk,
down the long, wrinkled corridor,
shadows painted into the faces on its walls.
Like trophy heads in a hunter’s jungle bungalow
lamps jut out,
all staring glass.
fingers up northern faces
of the mildly gated
lights lost in
My eyes are sore, having been pulled from sleep.
My hair sleeps yet; my pajamas, too.
My skin is dreaming or near a dream.
My breath? My breath won’t wake.
Deep in my ear there is a silence-shaped ring.
I rub my fingers together. The ring goes round them.
The window is open, isn’t it?
I’m standing somewhere,
somewhere near the door.
But the window is open.
Can the door be open?
Something has long been closed.
A mortgage locked by wet stamps
life insurance keyed to contrition
she rides a horse
wakes with car keys in her hand