The corner of my bed is where
they hid themselves, the way
paper hides the words I think
among the words I write
like a forest of feathers
always failing in their flight.
All attempts at rest will collapse
when the mind refuses to cover itself
in a silent blanket, moon like
trusting an evening grace
of pages bundled within your chest
where the aching of my empty head
longs to rest
only to rest.
They, the dreams I had in morning
floating like paper cranes
covered with words I’ve written in growing moments
carried upward, against reason and gravity’s strength
I watch you, flying crane, and say;
in hopes of changing
I will change.