Maybe we all had trouble going to sleep
Thus the crib mobile of grey clouds hung
Stubbornly over us. Last night our dreams
Were disturbed by a prodding finger of
Muffled voices over radio, of the pika-
Don of every impact, of the small bouquet
Of dust and smoke and reticle patterns.
Love at first sight blew me away even on the
Second third fourth fifth try.
Tonight we go to sleep with falling stars
Burned into our eyes. The question mark trail
Behind them, 30 seconds, gills in the sky.
The light must be a code from the unconscious
We gaze at our shooting stars and their trail,
Making wishes in the vacuum of our ears,
On our minds we think about tomorrow’s
Breakfast and drift into a flat grey sleep.
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