I have a story to tell;
don't much know when it begins.
I got only a notion of it,
golden flashes of bees droning lazy,
and us barefoot in a white and rolling field.
I see this place only in ruptured instants,
in times between waking and sleeping,
a postscript to my dark and evening thoughts,
the prologue to my dreams.
It is a strange and welcome halfway house,
a resting place on my way
from waking lies to unconscious and misremembered fantasy.
I’d like to believe it is hope -
this prelude.
Perhaps I am just awake enough to intend the joy,
and just drowsy enough
to trust that it will be real.