Sun through the window burned
an angle across my shoulder while
I slept over bright, flat hours while
I slept toward another wide night.
There, pacing its fibers like a thread
through burlap; the seam splitting
behind me as I sew, so shall I sleep
in the obvious absences; in
the margins discarded as space to offset
what's important. If you want to be heard,
whisper. If you want to breathe deeply, first
hold your breath. If you want to be free, do
not want. I sleep in the imprint of
consciousness, left by a willful lapse.
So grateful for any slumber, it keeps my
dreams to a thin stream punctured by your
incautious thoughts pacing miles from here.
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