Paul slept with a river smooth rock
under his pillow.
And a piece of petrified wood
machine-polished smooth.
On his nightstand
a dozen shaped clay snails
carried lustrous shells
collected from the garden’s carnage.
As sleep’s easy breath
shifted into a nightmare’s labored breathing
fog emerged from Paul’s mouth
as if the infernal dream tried to take shape.
The vapor froze into crystals that sparkled
lit with phosphorescence.
copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney
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