Sunday, 17 April 2011

16: Bad Sleep

Last night we slept like soldiers
leaping over the last battlement.

I kicked and cawed and your skin
was no respite from the day,

your touch was a Turkish bath,
sticks lashing my back.

Last night I dreamt of fire escapes,
of Manhattan, of iced coffee cups

pressed against my forehead like
a cold compress: you just relax now,

relax. I did not want to hate you.
I wanted to be breaking through the

contact-lens surface of a cold, cold
lake, I wanted to sink, to sleep,

mud oozing between my toes
but I couldn’t get there.

I dreamt of the furnace, instead.

I dreamt I didn’t sleep.

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