Exploding Head Syndrome

Your bed is a shooting range.        

The arrest of texture     between pillow and skull
pulls triggers     until your ears bleed,
until you are wet with startle, flushed like an animal    
from the tunnels of sleep. 

Somewhere, bombs fall. 
Through foreign air, birds fall in downy heaps.    

Not here. Your head is safe     in its nest of sweat and hair.
The shots that bolt you are dream shots         whose ledge
you can softly count yourself away from
in syllables      of light and steam

until a sum is reached    
of moth wings, cobwebs, rabbit pelts
that tumble through     
                                   the sky’s slit pillow,
that land and explode on impact,     
and explode into ash,   into aftershocks: 

brick on concrete, rebar on blacktop, 
battleship on battleship

until you’re awake again.     

Not your ships. Not your deadly seas.

Nothing but the rain beating     the ground     
with its falling.                           Nothing but your brain
misfiring         into its own body.