Sleep
Here the slowest rousings.
Crumpled kimono
still a cast of her waist.
Birds like crumbs
on the pale saucer of dawn.
So immediate
how I live down my nights –
the one thing I keep
for myself. So slight.
Images bloom:
hoarse frost, unclean seas,
peddlers yellow as teeth.
The well beneath me
catches the hours
as they fall.
We stomach winter’s pages
like a guilt.