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Sketch of Sleep.
I love the sound of distant traffic at night;
the idea that someone is travelling for reasons
known only to themselves.
I can imagine
but what I imagine speaks only for me lying here
on my narrow bed in a cold room, deliberately kept that way
to let the chill help me further appreciate the warmth of my pit.
Pulling my knees to my chest, I roll left
toward the wall.
From that side my mind is more vivid in colour
but darker in expression than lying on my right
where I see images of pleasant days never lived
like viewing the memories of someone else.
Am, I wonder ever a self when my body sleeps
in its own weight,
doing for itself in sleep what I protest
through the day?
Or when a dream seeps upward from a recess
deep within my unconscious leaving me
symbolically richer but rarely the wiser
come the first grays of morning light.
