The Island

My bed is an island
filled with dreaming,
a white raft to hold
soft bodies that I cherish,

my children,
my lover,
my own treasured and
broken vessel,

sleepy and satisfied
at the end of a day,
each of us afloat
for just a little while

as we travel
through our chapters,
or dissolve
like chocolate

on the tongue.
It is the place
I write alone,
or think of you,

or think of nothing,
an empty mind
on a quiet shelf,
or perhaps a busy heart

so full of questions.
At night we rock
upon our sea
of starlight,

sweet shelter,
skin to sleeping skin,
to remind one another
we are alive.

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