Slip into Wake

Between routine and compulsion is creativity My shadow leaps against the sky of my mind: it is fangs, talons, wings, and claws. I wait for it to surface; it is off hunting shards of glass, bits of rock, feathers, bones to fills my pockets. A slow voice speaks and (sonorous, lugubrious, oneiric) words flow in to fill the void which is not empty. Be still in this discomfort, be quiet in the night, sleep and dream, and wake now early before the light of day. Build a fire, build a dream, burn the dream into being across the backs of your eyes, and in that moment when the sun slits the horizon and all is ablaze with the thick light of late fall, pregnant with all the richness of the year and you are blind in that moment, yes.