The twitch begins behind my left eye,
the dusty one,
lazy in long hours.
Prepared to wait it out,
I gather myself
into shadow and sheet,
drinking in the firings of
each throb
and wanting
a deeper dark.
Finally I surrender to
those bending furls of purple
and lie with the music
of this clutter,
stilling the hurried rush of blur and trailer
into a settled space of gritty warmth.
Sleep dispels the brightness,
subduing it under a collapsing wooden dock
so that it settles down on its knees
in fishy mud,
browning away
from that shuddering muscle
of weakened sight.
I dream of thick glass,
old-world pirates
with eye patches,
and the gray tabby hand puppet I played with
when I was five,
the one with the rip in her left ear,
the one who heard
(and saw)
my stories.
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