Let the melatonin ponies
nuzzle your sacrum, lip you
over into a field of poppies
or under the rope to the
deep end before you can
realize, fight yourself awake.
You’re just a little boat,
a pleasant little tugboat, say,
not a garbage scow circled
by ravaging seagulls. Ponies.
Remember the ponies, how
their eyes command you
toward sugar cube dreams.