Sleep comes like a tide.
Evenings at home, we drift off
heads back, mouths open.
On distant shores
2
Sleep comes like a tide.
Evenings at home, we drift off
heads back, mouths open.
“Meaning glistens.” Or
“meaning listens.” Or perhaps
it’s “meaning lessens.”
Today was her last
day on a job I said ‘don’t
quit’ two years ago.
Some people like to
cook. Then there’s me who dreads that
thing called dinner hour.
“Have you been writing
your haiku journal?” he asked.
You read. You know ‘no.’
Intention shines high
above like a star I see
and dream of reaching.
Wind chimes jangle in
the breeze. Nature’s alarm clock
saying, “Go to sleep.”
Green Cay Marina
walk. J gets stung, M watches
A Christmas Story.
Sleep gently takes you,
like the lethal injection
you cannot resist.
I’ll Dramamine my
self into torpidity,
sleep through drink service.