The View Down Here

Sleeping on my stomach,
I would dream of boot straps,
the sun reflecting in the sand,
or the sinking feeling of mud on my palms,
supporting me with the sludge created in the rain.

My mouth speaks to my ear:
"what do you feel?"
but the ear is unable to reply,
will I wake in desperation or
pick up a new book to write,
to forget by the morning.