Naps

Night swims through a yawn

of silver chanted secrets,

held in the lungs by waking dream

that you had before being born.

 

And time is trapped in a honeycomb,

dripped from the earth

where it spun into candy

out of decay and dying prayers,

roots creeping towards moonlight milk

nursed the ghosts of tomorrow

who lived in the echoes of yesterday.

 

Buried in the screaming graves

are the embryos of heroes

the lovers with no bodies

that dwell in a sigh.

 

In a coffee cup

it all swirls as cream,

while the brain looks for miracles

among the salt and pepper shakers.

 

Headlines pour the caffeine

blended with they syrup of myths,

until we are inoculated with its sweetener

to become the working bees of a queen

trapped in a wishing well.

 

It will all end up written on a post card

mailed to an address for an organ donor clinic,

which exists in a phone booth

occupied by a transient

who imagined creation in his sleep.