Barefoot

Sometimes I walk barefoot in my dreams.
Dig my toes in the sands
of my childhood.

Run my fingers through the silk creases
of a pink nightgown
that sticks to my thighs
in the hot summer air
as I lie on a stripped mattress.
Twisted sheets and bare feet wilting over the sides of the bed frame,
as the moon dances on my calves
and sends butterfly kisses through the metal screen of the window.

And I’ll slide off these imperfect linens,
pink silk and long limbs pouring over.
And ten toes will kiss the floorboards in turn
in this sticky August heat
that makes the space between my wing bones glisten
with sweat.

I’ll mix myself a drink
from the streetlight glow that floods my bedroom
and the dew that I’ve collected on the soles of my feet,
from walking so far

on these unmarked roads
in the neighborhood of my imagination.
Where the stop signs whisper “go,” and the
traffic lights hang limp and empty-faced
from their metal hinges.
I’ll run wild-eyed.
And dangerous.
As the authorities take a siesta in the recesses of my mind,
bundled up with blankets in the corners of my skull.

And sometimes I run barefoot in my dreams,
my legs stretching
across my thoughts.