Thursday, May 13, 2021


For obvious reasons, 
it's nice
to believe 

that sleep is not a rehearsal 
for dying, 

nor is it some strange and 
colorless landscape 
into which we all plummet 

once the small aircraft
staffed by our consciousness 

is harrowingly dog-fought 
out of commission. 

Instead, perhaps its 
thick swarms of 
amorphous propagation

function more like training 
for the actual mission—

namely: our melding 
into all that is
presently happening, 

a rejoining with the program 
already in progress, 

which, one day, will require 
a focus so wide, 
an attention so general

that we won't even think 
of its opposite 
as narrow.