When it is too late
and I am still awake,
I count the millions of tiny mountains
hovering above me
before drifting off into other.

I am never awake
long enough to count them all,
but I am able to see,
somewhere between
the fan and the roof
and an immovable twilight,
the ceiling wears a skin of gratefulness,
and I,
one of drowsy solemnity.


Copyright © 2016 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

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