Like the rim of a dog’s eye,near blue moon cuttinga slip of clouds. A nest,a bare shoulder of stars:
a flood is on the way& so little is clear. Whenyou ask if I dream, I saythe truth: no. What I
recall from night istangled in the uneasyrising of a new day. Noneed to fiddle in my sleep
as well. When I wake,it’s clear the season’schanging, suspendedbetween two stories:
pink swarm of cherry petalsrushed off their buds,flashes of green stemsin rain just before dawn.
Photo by Anastasia Taioglou on Unsplash