The Long Book of Sleep (Poetry)

There are horizons beyond horizons —
the inbetweenlands stretch
unroll their unendingness —
skies are dizzy with all their space
written thin with clouds
tracing all those stories
where I live a hundred lives —
explore alternatives of being
and the dead are with me all the way —
talking pictures freed
from old chronologies —
walking off the page
and leaving memory to wonder
where they’ve gone.

Legions of dreamers —
casts of thousands march along
while roads that glitter — lure —
straight arrows in the sun
point silently where miles dissolve
and recall a place to visit
passing through a million might-have-beens
the lodgings half-described
and the flickering of journey
a paragraph that stretches, stumbles
once begun.

A chapter in a second —
whole histories condensed into
a shorthand style eager to record
every sight and sound
before conversations shrink away, whispering
layered through like sand —
a desert of lost words
drifting — snatched by sighs
and whirled senseless —
dying — eventually resigned to being dumb.

It is a marathon trip back —
unknowable as borders shift
and a reluctance makes leaving difficult
to judge — impossible to measure
the enormity of gaps that yawn —
canyons within canyons
with their diverting colours —
the company of ever-changing faces —
crowds gathering and dispersing
the thread of narrative constantly erratic —
earmarked to be continued...
in the long, long book
untitled sleep.