As a child of four, she learned to fall asleep
Night switches on his yellow lights
A child of eight, she prayed for breath to buoy her dreams
Then the poles switch, the metal warmth clings to the lids
Each morning, a scattering of eyelashes on the nylon pillowcase
He calls sleep Schmorpheus, his laugh loud
Twenty years later, she pierced the dreaming canyon
Even the ice pen tracks sleep’s jerks and troughs
She rode the golf cart until a crevasse gave way to sleep
Dreams’ rebus
On her deathbed, last night, each angel held a printed indigo card
He means a faint shimmer
