Drowsy

Dreams dash like deer, sudden and frightened. It's a Saturday night, and the sheets are wrinkled. Half awake, you still sense the wild, its tail up over the horizon. Ideas burst, little flashes of light, and the wrinkles in the land resemble roads on a map. But deer do not follow: the truth is obnoxious. Somewhere underneath all these blankets is a fact or two. You smooth the sheets with your palms. You realize the only thing to trust is sleep.