Three pillows levitate between us and the bed:
A puffy and a fluffy white one with sky-blue blood inside,
A red one with a pink patch like psoriasis,
like a skinned knee where Eric puts his head

A narrow black one with gray swirls of dreamed snow
circulating in an imaginary night where
the entire body of a dream squeezes into a scene
where prayer and confusion are the only narratives:

Eric leaps from pillow to pillow like
a toy-doll-eyeball-body with enormous shoes the color of each landing,
blood-red shoes with shaved pink raw patches where pinch,
shoes of midnight stained with bits of Grandfather Time’s dandruff,

white shoes with dingy white-blue veins in them that spoil the clouds.
Below the pillows, long depths of indefinite fall
down, down, down through mid-air clumps of grass and finger smudges
into some sort of nowhere where Art matters more than Love.