Bruce Bond

In this dream, you cannot open your eyes.

Be calm, it says. Either way you go blind.

A wonder anyone rests in this bed,

in the elevator dark that will not rise.

There are nights that lie down with the breath

of a thousand oceans. They grind the sun

into smaller, more manageable portions.

What is the opposite of the fear of death.

Is it the fear of death. Is it nothing yet.

Is it the bomb shelter you never knew

was there, until it told you it was not,

until it gave your face to the pillow.

Your body will tell you. Sleep scares you

until you’re in it. And then, you won’t let go.

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