Night took all I was 
warm bundle of fitful sleep 
tossed me up and lowered me down 

through the slow ticking gears of the hours. 
All of me, rolled and crushed and bundled, 
as if I’d never changed or grown older, 

just accumulated. 
When I wake: all the birds I’ve never known 
hop in the shadows, feeding, 

preparing for another fearful day. 
The beetle sounds his silent wail 
like a grown-up ego packed into a chic valise 

and the sound of traffic—raised from birth by humans—
tries to tongue a joke, and, failing, screams. 
What none of them notice 

is the way the world’s objects 
shift and flicker in the turning light, 
compound visions 

of what we all imagine we see. 
All of these separate dreams of the world 
cling to each other in layers like years, 

like hours, aggregations 
forming what is real 
and a body waking 

might see herself like that 
for an instant: 
she who was the moon—

then was the idea of herself—
but such a generous one, 
who knew?

Bio: Nina Lindsay