Sophia WilsonNew Zealand The fabric of sleepdescends like a tired paw,turns off our lights,offers mouth-to-mouth oblivion. For a while we can pretend we’re like stars andthat we don’t reside here anymore,between impossible grindstonesand the birth-death quandary; We drift weightless as falling leaves,over silver-scaled lakes;sprout fins and tresses andtransform to moon-mirrors until consciousnessdrops its arsenal, hauls us…