Sleep is drinking tea in familiar surroundings;
in a room with paintings from my mother’s home
and the old piano where once I taught myself
to play “Für Elise” (while going crazy.)
Sleep is my breathing:
the steady beat of teaspoons stirring —
strange it is:
I always drank my tea unsweetened.
Sleep is to be surprised with details,
like visits of forgotten friends,
or that blackbirds are as me.
Sleep is shredding poetry
I’ve never read.
Remembering or rearranging or forgetting.
Sleep is the bottom of a deep well,
is a distant disc
and water seeps into my shorts
while waiting to be saved.
Sleep is the cold breeze from a back-door
opened to a cemetery;
walking along a gravel path with moss covered headstones
leaning to the north and finding
(chiseled and eroded) my own name in granite
Sleep is giving answers to questions never asked
and asking questions never to be answered.
Sleep is swimming —
the hard work in vain to reach the island of awakeness.
Today we have MTB on sleep at dVerse. Frank hosts and you are free to write using any tool in your poetic toolbox. Bar opens at 9 PM CET.
September 28, 2017