This little poem mumbled
To me in our sleep, the
Little things the morning
Leaves: flowers
Of the strangest kind a
Cloudy sky might find beneath,
Above my head as I walk
Upon whatever the night
Rain swept through the
Streets. Reminds me with
My eyes half opened busted
Seams, spilling still such
Pillowy things, of the
Prayer I washed down
The bathroom sink, oh,
And the eyelash I think you
Dropped in my dreams.