They Who Sleep Need Little Air

Your heart is

beating,

but it is not a symphony.

You are bars of

rest

but you are not sleeping.

i carve crescents into the sky and

your eyelids punish your pupils and

you are in the woods,

lost

in trees, too many trees.

Too many people, too much noise.

There is a melody in

your throat, and you would

sing it if it weren’t so

quiet.

You cannot be heard. That is

what happens when you

don’t make a

sound.

At night the wind sounds like winter.