Remembering Jonathon the Sleeper


I walked into a room, and you were not

standing there. There was no shape

of your red canvas shoes in the carpet.

Or the heft of you green ballon by the window.


I lowered myself into the car

where we drove you after the treatment.

And you were not looking up, out and over

into the light falling through the trees.


I woke up and you had not

followed me from he dream

where you, in the willow-weeds

of the bayou, said to me.

I am asleep, and I am not there

in the morning were the cat is screaming,



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