mid-december twilight. (dreams of the sleepless)

draw me something,


a picture, a postcard from

where your dreams sleep.



pull your hand across your throat,

and beg the question, and

fold your hands, as if in prayer.



the clouds roll across the skies,

this is mid-december twilight,

and we've bolted all the doors.



eyes, a study in light and shadow,

the color of my coffee that morning,

a glass raised to lips that will not speak.



cut your hair and try to change,

your face is framed, they've

trapped us in our sitting rooms.



the library at night, tea stained

newspapers and dimmed lights, and

the sound of poetry in the next room.



draw me something,

a picture, a postcard from

where your dreams sleep.