FLYING IN MY SLEEP
Sometimes I float, sometimes I take
great arching leaps with soft landings.
Stretching my arms out like an airplane,
I fly back through time haunting myself,
a child plucking backyard dandelions
doesn't know I'm watching him.
Flapping my hands through heavy nights
like a poorly-designed bird
just to clear the telephone wires,
I am slower than light, more free.
I visit houses silent as caves
where sleepers guard over themselves,
leaning on walls near their beds,
pale souls who neither rest nor soar.
Seeing a hungry lion's eyes
in the orange coals of a sinking fire,
they never escape their anxious nights
or the gravity of their possessions.
Let them make the best of their marriages
to safety, welded to the earth.
© Bob Rixon