Sleep Well The Heart (A Fragment)

There is no accounting of the sleep for which one yearns. The hours unknown, the effects measurable. To sleep. If only. The ticking of a clockwork heart pushing slow blood through veins become tunnels under a glacier. The whispery rush of it lulls one into drowsiness yet grabs the belt before a fall into the sea of dreams. Hanging there, yearning, anxious. Some night soon, it will come? Enrobed in soothing, dark water with no fear of the deep?

This is the heart’s true dream.