What can YOU say in six sentences?
In the swamp at night I hear old, long sounds and they ache in the air and I tuck my fears in the folds of my sleeping bag and stare out of the slit in the tent door at the flickering remnants of the fire like it is the only hope that the world still turns and wonder what warped misanthrope could possibly make a noise like that.
In the swamp at night, big-eyed and quickened, I remember things that never happened to me and I decide that something else’s dreams must be caught in the moping, moss-strewn branches above, dripping down into my mind and poisoning the years preserved there.
And sleep is a gold ring at the bottom of the ocean, a coal-haired girl on a Tahitian beach, a rock on Fra Mauro, a strange thing I can not know.
You reach your little Carolina hand over to my forehead and brush my hair and whisper “Can you sleep?” and I breathe “No” and think ‘why are we talking like we’re swapping nuclear secrets?’
I feel you squirm closer and begin to wind around, a supple vine intent on sweetly suffocating me, and the last of the fire succumbs to the wet swamp night.