I recognize your imprint on the sheets.
Somehow it almost captures eyes as though 
the weight of your stare could bring form 

to color— the green of peace; numbed,
ambivalent gray.  You’ve cut your hair again,
lines trailing off to left & right.  Sleep sings

your praises, damns & comforts you
where this day’s hours grew too heavy,
were misspent.  So, unsure of yourself,

you move from one state to the next:
Chuang Tzu & butterfly, affective robin &
mime detached from a world that shuns

silence.  Your outline in the darkness
holds impermanence like whispers after
a loving kiss.  If you could accept such

promises, make brandy from moonbeams,
form a dream more real than your life
before sleep. . .  Instead, you struggle,

stir, breathe deeply past your trembling lips,
find no peace in even a moment’s rest.
Change will be more than a passing—

awaken into loving hope, as if your heart
has filled itself with orchids.  Without, 
see: you are a window at first light.