our dreams are wrapped in a pillowcase of spiderwebs

a thread spindles in the stagnant air of my bedroom
connected to the corner of my grandfather's bed clothes

sometimes when I sleep alone my feet stay
awake and my body's weight is measured by the density
of carpet beneath

around a corner in my mind
(my bedroom to yours)

he naps with his hat below his eyes
so no spiders can get in

Charles Wallace

You've been missing for years and maybe she went to find you.

You have been named and you will be remembered.