The Cartographer of Sleep

Each night I unroll a paper sky on the floor, its fibers smelling of pine and a distant kiln. I mark where the train of owls turns north, where the river of breath bends around a sleeping town.

A lamp hums, a low moth of light, and the ink softens like wet soil. I draw the orchard that only exists at 3 a.m., apples hefted by wind, their red small as heartbeats.

In the margins, the day leaves its tools— a key, a receipt, the grit of sidewalk salt. I varnish them with silence, a clear lacquer, so they will not rust before morning.

When dawn folds up the map, it smells like rain and warm bread. I tuck it under my tongue, so the roads will be there when I wake.