A silver coin sails across
the black sky making everyone
who sees it rich.
I know too what it is to feel
my poverty when the bowl
of night rolls down over me
with its ceramic thunk.
Some days I am swollen with
possibility, a ripe plum,
fingers sticky with sweetness,
while others I am hollowed out,
a bone scraped clean,
gleaming under the
weight of midday sun.
Many evenings my dreams
extend only as far as the garden gate,
desperate to unlatch the
red and rusted hook,
while others I throw away
the compass and cast myself
into sleep’s blue boat and
see where I wash ashore.
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