Sleep’s Splinters

Where go the shards of broken sleep?
Underfoot beneath attention’s tiptoe
upon mosaic in the making,
beaten earth containing broken glass
bitten edges of the saw-toothed wood,
flag and slate with their potential
to injure somnambulant slumber
enough to summon 911 of the mind.
Enough sharp edges of a knifey compost
might make a smoothness some places,
but not here. In daylight, razor blades.
Too high, the edge of bed,
to fall from and survive
impalement on the splinters on the floor.
Dreams coagulate as nurses
to the wounds of sleep,
circulate in veins and arteries
of our other bodies,
actors behind screens
of our home movies,
anonymous collaboration
between
what’s thought and what is seen.
(Throw caution to the winds
and let dreams fall like rain
to soak the bed
and water phantom flowers
in the graveyard of the mind.
They’ll wither in the light of day.)
Beware bedbound sleepwalkers,
this is your caveat;
it’s one world or the other
in one time, a single place.
Wear slippers,
but still be careful not to slip.