We created the secret order of hopeful insomniacs.
It was two jobs, really; in the day we were everyone
and at night, we dreamed awake in lieu of sleep.
Plotting, building, tearing down our own lives
to erect miniscule monuments to joy, in our minds.
With black bags beneath the eyelids, a uniform
for our invisible army. Can we look you in the eye?
Our hearts are there; more so than anywhere else,
and you will see them strangled with confusion
but sparking with hope, a mixture that changes
depending on how we are shaken.
In the winter things are easier. We write messages
in the snow, without being caught by the enemy
we are trying to convert. The children leave reminders
of angels in every corner. The landscape stark
like the 1930's and don't we know we would love
to be in some distant idealized time of peacoats
and better shoes for everyone; and neverminding
the poverty or the war or the brill cream.
And the sky outside turns blue, and I am afraid
Birds perch on the rims of your ears to sing
but the pillows are pulled tighter, the eyes, shut hard
and all joy becomes a distraction from dreams.
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