Bruce Bond

Issue #
September 28, 2015


Sleeping dolls, so-named for half a life,

know how hard it is to lay their heads

in anything but darkness. In each eye,

a tiny weight and swivel, ghost thread

pulled by gravity’s hand at the back.

Just what they see is anyone’s guess,

anyone’s prayer fastened to a sack

of bricks. Our first dream is nothing less,

seen from above like an unsigned letter.

So if one pulls your life a little farther

down the well, do not call it blindness.

Call it by her name, the one you gave her,

the exhausted child, the heedless, the weak,

who lay her head by yours. And in you, woke.

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