What does life look like from the plane I saw skimming the clouds?
Do old shoes find their way home?
I imagine a white-haired cobbler,
his bench slick with age, lovingly,
ever so carefully, herding the leather uppers
onto a new soul. Matchmaker.
Does a baby dream of green fields
and red poppies before ever seeing them?
Do memories – tribal, really – seep into the
brain, ensuring a long line
Do we fight sleep because we are
haunted by the long sleep we know