A bed of cushions, to defeat gravity.
A cradle from which to dream: escaping in a soft coracle.
Nothing to flee but weariness, but the weight of one’s own limbs.
A book halfway read represents another path unwinding, the mind absconding on its own.
Sometimes it likes to be alone.
In space, can one lie on the air (the not-air?)
Questions pop out of scenarios, not entirely formed, not entirely awake.
Dog huffs from her sprawl, recalling perhaps some moment when a previous sprawl had been interrupted.
A fine steam rises from a glazed mug. Off-white with a flower painted and the scuffs of frequent usage.
Steam is made of dots, of impermanent ink. A metaphor.