I think sleep is a solid. Although it might
be a liquid or a gas. But I would say it’s
a solid. When you sleep, you turn into a brick.
You then become part of a brick wall
join other bricks until you wake and you’re
a person again.
Sleep, though, could be
a liquid. Then you’re all alone—on a river in
dinghy, and suddenly your eyes pop open
and you feel woozy.
Sleep could also be a gas,
because your brain can journey to locations
you couldn’t possibly go to awake. Some
of these locations are frightening,
and a few are even pleasant. But they’re all
unexpected and can’t be planned for. Most
people would say they don’t exist, that they’re
in your mind, but that would be denying
presence, and nothing is more real than
While lying in bed at night, I try to
initiate presence. I talk to my dead friend Elaine.
I ask her to speak to me, even a few words.
Anything. I just want to hear her voice.
my mind and listen, but all I hear is my own
voice pretending to be hers. It makes me sad.
I think sleep is a solid. Or maybe
a liquid. Or a gas. Who knows.
I knock on wood before I sleep,
wish everyone I love a safe passage.
Then I close my eyes and
try to go where
I can’t go,
try to see Elaine whom I can’t see.