Try a night, trilobite

here in these midnight afterhours,

the world opens with possibility:

anything could happen,

dreams could come true

in an eyeblink,

all mysteries

could melt

out of fossils–

yet we know promises can be broken

as softly as a sandcastle,

we know another ripple can bury you undersea

when you think you’re out and free,

we know what strokes of the clock the terrors lurk beneath

but here we are

pretending to lose aches inside dreams

forever, yet

a puncture wound

the creaking wood

sets us floundering for skin again

out of the dream

falling into our need;

here in these after midnights

our sleepy loopy hopes

can fly

our sleepy loopholes

convince us

we aren’t hiding from feelings,

we’re just fine,

until the ripples come again

and break promises of kindness

over these soggy lungs

and who even are we here,

trying to sleep

humming to the chaos of this psychic dance again

counting reasons

we hurt but don’t say so

like they’re bubbles

or see-through sheep,

who even are we here

who even are we

who even are we

dancing or dreaming

are we breathing or counting

are we even here

are we even

or more at odds with the hours

where the terrors lurk,

who even

are these rising and falling

creatures

singing and crying

behind our bleary eyes

are we

awake for fear

or awake for sorrow,

or are we just

counting down to tomorrow

with no reason

but chance and history

hoping we can

rise again?