Makeshift Heart VIII: Rest

Sleep is not a hunger but a thirst and coffee will not slake it
The taste of water only lasts a moment and leaves the ravelled care still knit
The shape in wakeful bed attempts a dream but cannot make it fit
The eye a child awakes is aged but has more liquid in it.
Sleep is not a country but a town in which the innocent might visit
And where in getting back that state a pillow might help find it
And when to understand a rock a rock might help explain it
The eye designs the awful in the ordinary but inside terror comfort.
Sleep is no inspiration but a death and too much makes an idiot
The channel though the ruins of befuddle and bedraggle has too much ocean in it
The wet depression separating fields of agony and joy carries trout
The eye discerns what heart in foolish slumber wants to fillet.
I dreamed a dog goanna transformed into a small blond girl with significance in one eye
What she would say remains in sleep but I emerged once more rested in the ordinary light of day.