13 August 2011

the moon and i told rumors behind your back


The moon and I told rumors behind your back

I cannot sleep.
I cannot sleep.
I tangled a kiss
into your blanket before I wrapped you
tight in warmth
like being knotted up in a thousand sleeping geese,
their wings pressed
firm against your skin—
holding you in.

Oh you were a vision then.
So silent.
So slight the hint of the solemnity of slumber—
but there it was,
tugging at your cheeks,
pulling your lips
down like softly crashing waves.
You were walks along the shoals—
and my,
how far our toes could reach,
like leaping between continents—
sneaking in those moments before sleep
hidden in the crevice of your eye,
where all your dosing mattering gathers
to draw you into morning.

I cannot sleep.
And so
beneath your pillow find my hand,
holding out what is left of your yesterday’s you.
Rather
find the skin of my hand,
soft, palliator
of all midday cracking in your bones.
Rather
find the bone,
this remnant monument of pacifier
suckling infancy—

and clasp it, greedy sapling,
on the wetness of your tongue.
Creep soft
into the home of palpable—
hold it to you.
Knit yourself in,
grassknots,
tangled tighter than your hair,
against pillowed night. 

I cannot sleep.
Give me the first watch for the morning.

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