i am my own oneirocritic
sleepless now,
after being sleepless,
for so so long.
the hunger for the heart to slow
to a gentle pace -
like those that i love,
so terribly.
i’m sorry grandma,
about your spine,
and the stairs you only just built,
inside a generational space.
a walking-frame that doesn’t fit
through any hallway.

this is a poem
that I know I can never finish.