I linger in the lamp-light of my room,
cling to the yellow bulb
and buzz around it
while the night becomes
quiet
and hungry outside.
I search
between the folds of my half-sleeping mind–
nothing much awake in there,
but the hum of a summer night,
visions of places I’ve not yet been.
So, I sleep without much to say,
dream about mountains and mosquito bites,
guitar circles and someone to sing to across the fire,
then a warm home
full of sleeping babes,
with a lamp in every room,
so they will always know the sun.

-Ellery Rose

The sky is bone-white
and guilty-faced,
and some horrible cry is preparing itself
between my two lips–
I have become lamb from sheep,
   regressed again;
I cannot stop screaming,
I cannot graze the land
without knowing that I am becoming
someone I have already been.

The things that make me happy,
that used to,
all exist in some other place:
   where I came from,
where I’ll never be again,
where the creek water is always warm
and the lamb-scream
is so deep inside of me
I cannot reach it with my fist.

- Ellery Rose