Sleeping with the Lights On

Let's say, for argument's sake,

that love is a longer version of solace,

a lake of snow

with an immeasurable hat size,

somewhere where the air

doesn't ache so much

and old cell phones aren't piled

as high as the trees yet,

and let's say you and I go there

and take bets from the shore birds

on the hour and manner of the next death

and the next,

and when we're tired of pretending

to be astute, let's say we lie down

and sleep like seeds or numerous pebbles,

but with the lights on, and we do,

oh, we do.