Like the rim of a dog’s eye,
near blue moon cutting
a slip of clouds. A nest,
a bare shoulder of stars:
a flood is on the way
& so little is clear. When
you ask if I dream, I say
the truth: no. What I
recall from night is
tangled in the uneasy
rising of a new day. No
need to fiddle in my sleep
as well. When I wake,
it’s clear the season’s
changing, suspended
between two stories:
pink swarm of cherry petals
rushed off their buds,
flashes of green stems
in rain just before dawn.
Photo by Anastasia Taioglou on Unsplash
