The Dream At the End of the Finger

“Submarines don’t mind spending their time in the ocean.”
—Destroyer

twinkle finger spot end nail
who is not behind eyes right
away when morning wind
grass wet shaking timbre of
tiny million crescents each
all just land shy of blinking
traveled down no mind yet to
nerves turn it turns I turn
and twitch bed covers shift
orange calls, brown speaks, the
leaves crush under fury feet
“I” knows someone is eating
“I” knows what to call them
but shush, not awake I’s not
yet detonated Our resonance
stolid perceptive vibrations
nets webs lattice twists of
We are wind still shaking
entertained sleep keeps Us
the real dream. free for one moment more. “Good morning.”

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