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.