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  • * Thanks to Stuart Bonnington for this photo "Gentle Early Light"

    After reading a beautiful essay entitled Insomniac's Dream by Donna Steiner, I found myself half wishing (absurdly) for that muse of alert possibility when "the brain goes a little crazy." Haze region, twilit time when everyone except other members of that "weird, private circus troupe" is sleeping. I remembered Anne Carson's essay "In Praise of Sleep" and Lisa Russ Spaar's anthology of insomnia poems: Acquainted with the Night and felt irrationally alienated. (Only a writer with a warped and woofing sense of inspiration would covet such material.)

    Then I woke rested. Had a night as fitless as my father's. Easy sleeper, he puts cheek to pillow or ear to shoulder in the recliner without preamble. While my mother has protective wind-down rituals to quiet her thoughts, a television will do for him--whether the show relays Mexican drug cartels or Holland's tulips. His eyelids grow weighted as snow clouds stacking on the horizon.

    Cradled in the lap of Sandman, I emerged from the silk topography swaddled in strands of dreamscape. Cells knitted, a caterpillar cocooned in a bough that didn't break. Fog walk from the dawn-lit valley of the shadow of death. A prize lamb making her round way down the driveway to go sledding, her watchful mother having bound her in down and mittens.

    A shine catches on a brass lamp, a leaf. My eyes baby eyes incapable of discerning edges. Every object in the room less matter than dense light & doing the opposite of dimming.
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