A Night’s Movement
The white crane of platitude swooped from the sky. Greetings to the white gowns and colonial
watchmen below. Wistful dreams sleep in featherbeds and an unseen ghost alongside. They
both squeeze yeasty grapes into flour and pile bread in my arms. I, later, cracked the bread
and heard whistles. They had traveled far, harvesting ears as they went. Now, sounding thin,
they crawled along the crust, leaving behind the dense, yet evaporative crumb. I think I
became something else, because I could no longer hear the trees, the dreams, the ghosts, the
grapes, or the bread. I don’t wake here, but also, I don’t sleep.