Dream tosses you back
to a night where sky seemed more
distant than air, and your life was
clustered inside a dry bush unnoted
by half-woken streets and windows.
You try to awake, but your name
escapes. You were
no nomad.
You were just there,
an animal without
pace or pattern.
An animal trying
to dissipate.
But morning
climbs into your walls,
and knows your place
for today.
Written for Weekend Writing Prompt #152.
