Forty-seven

When the purple 

night behind my eyelids glow, 

the dark river 

wades its melatonin flow. 

I soar upwards 

like a nighthawk searching to 

feed its eyas.

In the deep dark the hawk dives 

on a rainbow 

glittered fish. I reach an all-

white hall, there is 

a space around me but it’s 

also not there. 

It’s confining and endless. 

It’s warm and ice 

picks prick my pores. My dead friend 

calls me in the 

middle of the night. Numbers 

I see on signs 

and license plates are markers 

that I’m heading 

in the right direction. My 

subconscious is 

my truest form. I am an

embryo of light. I am

a foot in the crystal pool.