“He still wondered, as he felt himself drifting off.”
found in the creases of your collar,
your sleeves unrolled and sliding open around your wrists
like two pale-tongued dragons.
You sink to the mattress like a sack of flour
bathing your feet in the dim light
and unfolding under the covers.
Your mind cannot put the cover back on the mason jar
so your spilled conscience drips into the crevice beyond your eyes.
The dreamless sleep you invoke will prey onto your soul
but only for the cycles where your eyes are closed.
*Prompt of the week was to write down the 11th line of the 37th page in the book closest to you, and write a poem springing from that line. Mine was a manuscript of one my own novels.