by myself

Sometimes, when the sky has closed its eyes, I close my eyes before I dream, to dream. I’m 1800 miles away in a quiet land. Freeways and trains are far away and planes never fly overhead. The flora is still and the air holds on to my words and breaths with small, icy fingers. But I am warm in my large overcoat, sweater, t-shirt, and long-johns. This Phoenix boy has thin blood. Daylight lifts me to see the pastures and fields. I have one glove on, fitting over all digits of one hand. My other glove is walking next to me, keeping my palm, fingers, thumb, and soul warm. Eyes reflect tall edifices and molecules. The road stretches out with no end. The destination is not important. I never want this journey to end. But sleep always wins… for now.