When I am Sleepy
When I am sleepy, when I watch Monet’s willow from behind the soldier’s arm
When I think how he decided to stay, decided not to fight, to sublimely ignore
I think about how childhood must be, how dreams are, how there must be a place we can go that is not of this world, though it may be in it. How our minds can set their boundaries at the last quivering leaf, the 80th layer of blue, and then after that, be it war, or want, or misery, that lay beyond it, it simply fades to black.