Sophia Wilson
New Zealand

The fabric of sleep
descends like a tired paw,
turns off our lights,
offers mouth-to-mouth oblivion.

For a while we can pretend we’re like stars and
that we don’t reside here anymore,
between impossible grindstones
and the birth-death quandary;

We drift weightless as falling leaves,
over silver-scaled lakes;
sprout fins and tresses and
transform to moon-mirrors

until consciousness
drops its arsenal,
 
hauls us to sharp wake
like a premature delivery-

child’s cry,
wild cat’s yawl,
angry door-slam,
thought’s hook,

or the midnight
texting
of a faraway drunk

and

we are re-exposed under
the ticking-clock
of rising temperature

as an

endangered species,

like stars,
small blossoms
and rest.