edges of sleep

Time staggers between day and night,
a mosaic of the now and used to be
laid out with a fury that suggests
the artist is angry. Oh, to sleep:
and there to discover the order of dreams
in a field of wildflowers presided over
by infants and amoebas. The alphabet
written by the days’ mistaken pen
spells nonsense to the dreamer, sense
to the schizophrenic who rules it.
It is no wonder the sane play games:
games’ rules make sense and all in games
follow the rules; in the mosaic strewn
by time, power and wealth break rules,
and the inmates are running the Asylum.
Oh, to sleep if that is possible; and if it is not,
to seek and find those parts of the mosaic
that form a field of anemones, daisies,
sweet william, and soft-scented wild roses.