There is a river
that runs through my sleep,
its surface a mirror
that only shows
what I haven’t said.

The banks are lined
with willow trees
bent low,
as if listening
to something older than rain.

Some nights
I find myself barefoot
on the mud’s cool tongue,
and I watch
a paper boat drift by
with handwriting I almost recognize.

The moon leans down
and brushes my hair
like a secret
learning how to speak.

When I wake,
my hands are damp,
and the pillow smells
of moss and iron
as if the world
was trying
to carry me back
and almost succeeded.