Under the night,
under the self-made waves
of waking dreams
the earth is invisible
and I am
counting the heartbeats
till that crystal theater, that
quasi-self, that shadow-life,
that demi-death,
that angel,
that sleep.
Destroy me again, sleep!
Blade that cuts these ever-raveling
threads,
mother of spirits, gathering the
romping souls to return them
to their chosen bodies,
night within a night,
remind me why there is a night.
The performance has ended,
crowds scatter,
worlds await:
silken walls that don’t own
me, commit me to nothing,
judge nothing.
Strong as myrrh,
soft as secret love, these
lavender fields at the end
of sweat-forged rows,
where a lone bird takes a
sip of the sky,
I see in sparks, cruel
fireflies that singe the vaccum
then exhale before I think to
grasp them.
I plunge from a cliff,
never touching the earth,
passing sky after sky,
each one thinner than the last,
stars underfoot.
And behind me, is my last
thought before darkness,
and heaven somewhere between.
© Patricia Joan Jones
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