Come the dawn,
spider webs and dreams
are taken down
and, sometimes, the moon as well-
all buried in closeted
spaces, those pale
grave channels carved
between eye and nerve.
There, for a hover,
in the blink between sleep
and a day, anything
can gather sense
and order- where, recalling
phantom memories,
I understand everything,
unlike when awake-
that knowledge cannot bide
its time,
just a boy on the outside,
falling for an ocean,
and waiting to drown ...
for a night in her
again:
small spoons for large cakes
with too many candles unlit;
my devil in the deep
blue jeans and not enough
water for a nameless horse,
nor a shallow trough where image
and reflection can be splashed
away; she's coming back while
leaving, stepping against
the angle of gravity. It all
makes sense in the mourning,
in the unfinished land
of wide awake and dreaming.
Honorable winner
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