Midnight Letters and Morning Numbers.

Awaking from you

is not unlike awakening from a dream

in which I can not sleep.

In between-thought-fragments

I am tearing at sheets,

inside a mindscape my

fingers are peeling at walls,

layer upon layer of incased

paint

revealing nothing unlike the

color before it,

each to the next,

only marred in places

sketched with time,

i am unetching these marks

to put a whole in the stopwatch

the size of Jupiter

so that the Purpose

will stop finding it's way from

leaking out.

Like an encaged beast

I am stripped

but not without the Majesty

of the vision of the forest

which becomes me.

Pillows were made for sharing

now i lay me down to sleep

-fir trees trade places

for the feathers in here-

:

A dream is a thing they say

 which can never translate

except to say

-I found you there-

I need an alphabet of mirrors

not of measures;

I type the letters A = B = C

and they drift off the page

like a skylark.

Only the moon is left

to speak as witness

with its silences.

I have a storybook filled with pictures

that is mine alone,

not even of the earth,

except that you inhabit the hearth,

and that makes it Ours,

whether you may know it,

or not.