SHORE

At least—after wild storms 
and bleak
unpredictable stresses, he feels

there can be a certain plain and 
repeatable 
order to his sleep—where

he might dream—
simply

of perfectly 
calm and full oceans—not contained,
for not complete,

inside any such 
tall glass as might convey 
even the most fleeting 
feeling of momentary optimism—

and with 
absolutely no bubbles 
to flatter 
or define them at their edges.

And then 
when he wakes, he might dare

to imagine
having imagined—

that the whole world 
has stopped 
and slept in his wake;

and when he rises again 
to move—in pastel light,
through a kindlier space,

that the whole world is leaping forward 
with him—rekindled 

and a little
less confused.