Hypnos, Inc.


There are gods who craft sleep out of things that people throw away.
I hear them in the alley at night lugging beer bottles,
welding parts together.

When I am sleepless, they say:  Here.
And bleary monochromatic vision starts spilling from my hands.
A smoke detector suctioned to the ceiling
might be a fat toad crouching in topsy turvy mud
whose red eye blips like a slow metronome.
Sometimes there is art so contemporary, it is almost yet unmade.
I languish among the odors of bedclothes.

From here, growing attached to the alignment of objects,
The dangling globe with its black oceans.
The oceans are black even in daylight, tarry lakes full of crumbs.
And the candy box with an illustrated maze.
I have all night.
I think of all the bedrooms I can remember.

Pine trees that seem to be Easter Island heads
animated by wind, mouths closing onto sleeping crows.  
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