If what sleeps is beautiful then
why not death? On dark days
the body rises slower, its strings
and hooks taut against the soul.
I am not sleeping. I have never slept.
Lying down, the milky mist hangs
low. Somewhere in the night
a woman searches for her father
beneath the waves of blue & green
a stranger to the ocean, a restless rolling.
Here, beneath the sky, the same
still sky they all will see, what flies
over brings perspective, peace
perhaps. Perhaps some peace.