My Bed Is an Air Balloon

When night falls my bed is an air balloon. I sail through the slipsiverse, close by the moon. I float above treetops where the nub-nubs are sleeping and flowering hills where the whifflepigs go creeping; ponds strung with starlight that glitter like glass, a floog with its velvet nose bent to the grass. Such treasures I count on. My bed in the trees swings me up high, like a circus trapeze. Now the cool, night-rustling air slips through my finger-gaps, ripples my hair; now we glide over water, the moon’s silver light blown by a cloudpuff into the bight, adrift on the sea where the dream-shapes float; when night falls my bed is a sailing boat. When night falls my bed is a sailing boat adrift on the sea where the dream-shapes float, blown by a cloudpuff into the bight. Now we slide over water; the moon’s silver light laps at my finger-gaps, ripples my hair; now the cool, night-rustling air swings me up high, like a circus trapeze. Such treasures I count on my bed in the trees – a floog with its velvet nose bent to the grass, ponds strung with starlight that glitter like glass and flowering hills where the whifflepigs go creeping. I float above treetops where the nub-nubs are sleeping; I sail through the slipsiverse, close by the moon. When night falls my bed is an air balloon.