The loamy clay of sleep seals your eyes, your ears with dream food, and you search your heart to see if those green eyes show something known before out of the revolving inevitability, the comedy of intentions, of the heart that goes through doors and climbs stairs like a brave. Something for the dawn, the ever-early moments you disavow as readily as the rain, the light through trees, angelic asphalt of fatherly hands, your own, that white clay and flower endless to say, endless to shape the sweet head, the sighs you inhale, slouching comedian of generations, and the other across the fast-dissolving shore.