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Sleep
by Alexandra van de Kamp
Dark comma of a life. Road we become when we lie down. The body a luminous plate the night lays itself upon. Our mind the witch’s hut where all worry burns, our fears kindled in that phosphorous wound. Just think: no matter what we do under the bright umbrellas of sun, each night, darkness robes us in its velvety caves, blurs us with the furniture and the cats, who trust the dark, lean into its many words. We are children: tiring so easily, needing to be held nightly by a hand pouring its shadow down the sky. Plants at dusk twitter like birds, sing between two alien worlds.
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