Linger

the moon tumbles

into the refuse bin of morning

all dreams both large and small

contain a splinter

of truth, a chink of reality

which is why the comb 

seems to pull 

certain strands of light

from my hair as I blink

before the mirror

I spent the night flying--

a kite dragged across the sky

by an unseen string

dipping and curving, occasionally 

crashing back into my bed

in a dazed heap

of glowing sheets, luminous

pillows

unconfined by four walls

that broke open

to the night’s voices

I pick up my toothbrush

half-expecting 

to be pulled up through the ceiling