You Don’t Know the Half of It

You don’t know the half of it

He sleeps , the black happy dog at his side,
me curled up fetal.
We leave each other
to dream our separate dreams,
angels, no angels
wings, claws , hooves that clatter,
she whimpers , twitches, runs in her sleep,
chases as deer leap away.
Perhaps, he combs the beach
for Roman coins, arrow heads, bones.
I search for the wish full filling jewel
but find sticks or apples to throw for the dog.
They never land, just orbit the planet
and burst into flame.
In the dark, the creek outside serenades
beneath the bridge and the moon hides
beneath the fog that melts with the morning
illuminations of trees burst golden.
The last remnants of dream vapors dissipate.
We stretch, yawn, pretend we are not strangers,
as if nothing happened in the night
and we still know each other.
The happy dog ecstatic, jumps and jumps.
She licks my face as if I have been gone forever.
She is on the right track.
I have been gone and so was she.
The man and I, we drink coffee
as if those nocturnal separations were nothing.
Half of our lives, every night,
a mystery, even to ourselves.
I read the news as if it can provide
some back story a foothold ,
a conversation point,
a place to rope in the day
even if just to cry.
My mind jailed
in a language of news
that shrinks and turns into bullets,
a daydream to sleep off.

What are you looking for?