Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Dream Fire
Sleep is part
of the underground—
not taxed. All
these hours, colors,
and people (real and not)
are coming to me for free,
cracking their belts
like whips,
offering me
chests of money.
What code—
what provision
of science—
does this fall under,
this unregulated
carnival of closed eyes?
Is it safe?
Are the funnel cakes
sold here
soaked in trans fats?
I fall asleep at night
on a welcome mat,
in front of the
brick-hard hearth;
keep warm
by throwing one more
log, one more day
on the fire.
