| There is a moment just after opening
my eyes from sleep, my mind fluid with images stillborn from dreams.
I cannot know in what capacity I exist before I endure full consciousness:
Perhaps the sea. A floating limb. The woman once a bird. And one small
sound will draw me back from touching the lip of what I’ve yet
to hold, and I begin to awaken. The rustle of linen, stretching an
arm above my head, a wedge of pale sky peering through the window
above my bed. The ghosts are gone, exiled to memory and the half-light
between sleeping and waking. |
Rio:
A Journal of the Arts 
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