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Fighting off the sleeping pills,

the ceiling fan whirls swiftly.

Lights off now, the black cat

crouches by the fireplace screen.

Inside this waking dream, the

window ledge flips over, and I am

seeing this from the outside with a

twisted crystal perspective. Cherry

pipe smoke filters through the air

and my grandfather is there in the

flannel shirt he wore to fix the

furnace back in '58. The lateness

of the hour enhances these fertile

illusions. Staying in this meditation,

the ice cubes fall, and a brown

spider darts across the room.

A gentle solitude advances. Three

deer in the backyard sneak into

the cornfield. Rustling the stalks

while they divide each row.

Time is a water tower in this

torrential rain. Frequently the

frequency veers off to foreign

directions that have no compass.

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