Letting go of the world,
as if it were a remote control
falling from your drowsy hand
onto the motel floor,
you don’t know if you’ll ever return.
You trust your body
unattended by mind and spirit.
In a dream, you may hang on
a cross of exhaustion looking
down at betrayers of loin or leg.
Through the night you find
every pose of sleep’s evolution,
a fish gasping in a shallow pond,
a pig sprawling in a wallow
of sleep-warm sheets.
Let go. Swim on
into the white night and don’t
come back. The world’s not
to be trusted. It will never
forgive you or make up for loss.
Copyright Ron Houchin 2009
