next to these letters a seashell fragile as a yolk’s home colored as the heavy comforter in my parents’ bed the bed i took naps in with mom matching measuring cadence the pace of air for i hoped rhythm could be something like the winter sun slipping low and lower making nights long and days shorter calling for birds to leave and bears to sleep
give me an incantation like the twisting of the world like the sliding slow snapping of constellations into place some spell against the murky ocean or foggy mountain obscuring perfect conch obscuring double yellow for now i have no mother’s breath to guide me or heavy comforter to hold me and i cannot remember how to fall asleep