Night Storm

A gale on the edge of sleep, a night horse, black fire blown through wind-hollowed lungs. A tempest in the ringing shell of self where sleep slopes down. The mind has miles --- a long foreshadowing. The red gullets of storm gulls open they sing of deep sea dreams never remembered. Amid this teacup tumult, a child looks out, a storm-child driven to a high ledge, where his sleepy legs dangle over a pitched and plunging bed.