Sun and Sleep

Now I’ll fling the blanket wide.
I’ll roll up my trouser legs,
I’ll push up my sleeves.
I’ll curl into a tired
unshaven embryo.

Then the sun will come in.
It will lift the corner of the cover,
it will roll my sleeves back down,
it will scorch my trouser legs
down to the naked heels.
And it will flash in my teeth.
Softly matted.
Old-gold-plated.
Sponge-cake-layered.

I’ll dream a light-sleep dream.
Morning-stringed.
Bow-and-keyboarded.
Wind-and-chambered.
No images.
Only sounds and sensing.
Careless and unheeding.
Memoryless.
Without malice.

I’ll turn my back to the wall.
I’ll stretch my feet toward the door.
I’ll touch my bare soles
to the rays.
I’ll step barefoot onto the ground,
squint my short-sighted eyes against it.
I’ll walk the dew again.
I’ll beg it not to drink it.
It will hear me, it will wrap me round.

It will pass my shadow by.
And won’t remember the dream.