The invisible tribe sweeps through the sleepers
And for that moment their dreams lay in their hands
Like musical instruments.Who will you wake with it?
Of course your dream was never alive;
The hole you thought was a mortal wound–
Place your mouth there and
A note carries through the night, brushes
The underbellies of leaves and reaches those
Who travel without being heard. Some will
Stop, and look down at the nautilus in their hands
They only now remember carrying, they will put
It to their ears, and hear the same sound,
And while the invisible tribe slips away,
begin moving silently your way against their new shadows.
Your poetry sweeps through your readers. Thanks, Jeff.