From the top of the stairs the train looks like a model train, the river like a stream, though the moon seems large as it reminds me of your eye. From the back of the train, the mountains, even as the train descends them, look like humps of flesh. From across the room, you are a lion.
In the stream, from this wet vantage point, there are no fish, though there are fish in it from the shore.
From here, I can almost not even hear you sleeping.
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.