i am partially enclosed in my own box
with a window cut into it and bars at the bottom
and beyond this space morning is still a brief consideration,
a dream which the eastern sun cradles between her palms as she sleeps nude above China.
two floors down, the sound of sprinklers lulls me: my very own rainstorm,
sending up mist that barely reaches me and cold air that brushes my skin
like mother’s hands.
i am half awake; it is three in the morning.
the only other people awake right now are jeff buckley and the moon
and neither of them seems to pay me much attention just now,
the moon rolling over in his heavy cotton (billion thread-count) sheets
while jeff tells me over and over again how real that was
and my eyes keep closing but i can’t sleep.
three in the morning is not conducive to lucidity.
my brain stutters, yawns, trudges on its tracks as the sprinklers shut off
below my music (maniac) microcosm.
the skittish-deer thought that “i should go to bed” races across the tracks
too quickly for my mind to register,
and i stare out at my parking lot court with its lawn shaped like texas
and wait for my mommy to come home and put me to bed.