Bedroom eyes

There’s a mirror on my dresser.
The kind that folds.

Each night,
as I sit on sleep’s edge,
I cast a covert glance
to a conscience that looks back at me.

On any night,
I might see
what age and regret have done.
Or, there may be the saving grace
of a wistful smile.
Remembrance of a fleeting love.

Dream birds of the night before
come to roost.
To set sleep’s mood.

Visions, often, of perilous depths.
Miles of mist,
bottomed by devilish waters calling.
A plummet, appalling and unredeemed.
A waking with hammering heart.

And next, divided by night or chapter,
a buoyant flight, away and up,
above the rolling green.
So simple.  So natural.
With one who has been, too.
We hover over clover,
and, in my stupid innocence,
I ask
Are my feet off the ground?

 

 

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