Poem: Were Sleep a Sound

Were Sleep a Sound

Were sleep a sound, it'd be the caramel crack
of the crème brûlée, torched golden,
begging to be tapped by that silver spoon.
Not unlike a lake frozen once a year
calling for skaters, daring the brave.
That moment before we plunge into
the deep waters, the sweet custard,
that sweetness before sleep takes us
when you know you can't open your eyes
any longer, you fight a little,
just to see what it's like, struggle
in the arms of oblivion, half-hoping she
will take you soon to the repository of dreams.
What to watch today?
I can't remember what I saw yesterday
and I'm inclined to browse the flying section
or the unfinished dreams;
there's one in which I need
to return a stolen engagement ring,
and a dream in which I need to steal one.

Tell me of Ondine, that German water nymph
(the only German water nymph I know)
betrayed, hair a fountain, infuriated,
her long nymph finger pointed at this knight
cursing him to dread that divide
from this world to the next
never again to experience that break of ice
that crack of the crème brûlée
that falling into dreams I so covet.