babyhead

or My Other Life... As you dream of your terrible robots: those machines without mercy, dressed in the flannel suits that hang in the cedar scented closets, belonging to the men you keep frantically close, your body hardly moves.

You drop, every night, onto a mattress stuffed with every years fallen maple leaves. A yearly diligent search for the perfect leaf, proceeded by the most perfect leaf. The dusty essence of crimson reds heaped over the mustard ones with tiny stained green centers can be smelled all the way down to under your hair line.

There is no blue moonlight cutting window pane lines across your face as you rest, only the October yellows of a bedside lamp, limpid as your desire. Its' illumination can barely reach your child sized toes. All ten point South, as you sleep.

The tiny blue crab that nests in your leaf pile, who will only scuttle out during the sleep, induced by the twitchy command of your index finger.

With movement like arms extending from under covers, the blue crab skitters to your hairline, and lifts both claws to the ceiling. With both, it clicks a sturdy time of rapid castanets, and then waits.

You exhale on to him like a velvet curtain falling, and he waits with both claws, tipped in blue, extended to the sky.

When the crab repeats it's clamor, but you do not wake.

The crab does not know grateful as it knows tides, as it knows when certain nourishment may be attained, how the new moon hovers, the stench of silver eels, and also when to wait.

The blue crab will not blink, does not blink, knows nothing of clearing its' eyes.

And you dream, checking for a damp breath from the robot mouthpiece, it holds a binding of your brown hair between two hollow fingers and sleeps itself.

It dreams of a summer garden in the autumn, it see something it cannot explain, it dreams of Foxglove falling on grass.

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