In the middle of a lazy afternoon
my eyelids droop—
paper shades against the light—
patterns that precede sleep cast nets
inside my eyelids: electric blue,
pulsing violet-red.
Breath eases, evens, feet cease twitching
& that myotonic jerk
that often snaps me alert,
stills.
Telephones jangle, ballerinas whirl & leap,
TVs blast commercials, salesmen sell shoddy wares,
& anemones wave on the tides.
The world, like a dumb & placid child,
concerns itself with measured spinning,
turns its face to the sun.
It does not march in place because I sleep
but continues on
just as it will do when I am dead.
The world goes on
Ann Howells edited Illya’s Honey for eighteen years. Recent books: So Long As We Speak Their Names (Kelsay Books, 2019) and Painting the Pinwheel Sky (Assure Press, 2020). Chapbooks Black Crow in Flight and Softly Beating Wings were published through contests. Her work appears in many small press and university journals.