Sky of Sleep

Sometimes she is a tree
to the sky of my sleep,
with long branches to snag
the string or the body of me.

Sometimes I am a kite.
Held there on a hundred windy
days of summer, my edges tear
from the desire to float away.

Birds pick at the string
(useful in the construction of nests),
the crucifixion of bones
against blue sleep,

and somewhere,
in a waking dream,
I make the necessary noises
like snoring to scare them off.

It is enough to be here
in her arms, secure
from drifting,
drifting away.

Copyright © 2005 J.P. Dancing Bear All rights reserved
from The MacGuffin
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission