And miles of ghosts beneath our sleep.
—Philip Metres, Song for Refugees
Beneath our sleep we juggle gold
and crimson fruit of cackling djinns
twirling insouciant fingers bold.
Beneath our sleep we flounder, spin
in roils of black and endless waves
where circling monsters lurk within.
Beneath our sleep, stumbling in caves
of blackened tunnels, massed ghosts dent
pillars of safety, opening graves.
Beneath our sleep we’re spent, lament
the days of order passed, unease
as road map burns, illusion bent.
Beneath our sleep, we seek release,
a path to certainty and peace.
2024-01-01