From the very far dark, deep and beating black,
there’s ghost breath, and blue light after,
where I un-broke myself,
next morning.
I’m under, curled to a pupil
of the bed’s eye,
so I blink the dream out.

Asleep, plants are respiring,
and the loam of their dream
is lifting, thinner.
Then the real interrupts,
erupting as a day,
and shimmering back again.
Like the shore that shares it’s time
between sand and ocean.

A fully open cup
fills up in the moment,
wherein that infinite shrinks,
and the universe grows backwards,
backwards Into,
cold coffee and dog ends.

Strange that.
It's not a nocturne,
It's an echoe of a day,
It's a memory of a memory,
It's a remora on reality.

Strange that.
why when last night,
my ashtray was full of stars.
The clock infinitely deepens
the memory of the dream.

But it’s there,
only just there.
That maybe, perhaps, dreaming of us,
somewhere in the brightest time of the night,
somewhere in sleep,
in the inbetween spaces,
somewhere there,
we left ourselves in mermaid’s purses.