Sleep is like mist,
the sheets are ocean.
No wind.
Just this impenetrable fog
that I’m drifting through.
Dreams are other water-craft.
At first, I merely hear
the put-put of their engines.
But then they loom into view.
So close we come
but don’t crash.
Instead, our vessels
sail inside each other,
linger, before moving on.
There are people on deck,
some familiar some not so.
And more down in the hold,
mostly older, riding out the waves
as they do the spin of the earth.
We touch like clouds do.
We talk, we laugh,
beneath the rumble of snores.
We don’t wonder why,
with visibility so poor,
we are the ones who find each other.
Tomorrow night
it could be someone else
doing something different.
No reason.
That’s just how the subconscious is.
Dreams are not a clearing of the mist.
They are the symptoms of its persistence.
