The words draw over me
in their cloak of beauty 
and I float somewhere 
above the bed, in an ether 
where futures take root 
and the past revises 
until, well pruned, 
it bears forbidden fruit.
The book falls flat on my stomach 
and I could be twelve again, 
barely breathing, 
eyes worn from devouring 
page after page, 
caught in the thrill 
of fabrication.
The risk is, a book 
can break your life apart, 
then put it back 
so you barely recognize 
anyone, least of all you.
But that is what all 
great religions teach—
one unexpected resurrection, 
and suddenly you’re a believer.
                        

When you are a teetotaler 
of caffeine and then drink it 
by accident, the payback
is profound. With no hope 
 
of sleep before dawn, 
I watch the usual eddies
my thoughts swirl down, 
looking out from the bed 
 
as from the prow of a ship, 
the cat a figurehead 
pointed forward as I plow, 
toss, and turn in a perfect storm 
 
of insomnia. I could get up—
it hardly makes sense to stay put—
but there’s no place I want to be, 
so I drift on waves of exaggerated
 
phantasms—every sound a roar, 
every shadow a wall of water, 
every breath a gale.
                        

This miniature monster 
could have sprung 
from a Star Wars 
drawing board—
ten sucker-covered 
tentacles, three hearts 
pumping green blood. 
Disguised as a piece 
of seaweed, it cuts 
a solitary path 
along the bottom, 
walking on its arms, 
occasionally floating.
But at a threat, 
toxic flesh flashes red 
and yellow, taunting 
would-be predators 
who know better 
than to eat this fierce 
morsel, a food chain 
anomaly, not even 
collected by humans 
until the skeletons 
line Australian beaches. 
Then tropical birds, 
their flamboyance 
confined to cages, 
learn to trim their beaks 
on those bones.