The Sleep of the Loved

 

crosses reflected

in the distilled glass

of my eyes, and I swim

in the ambivalence:

dreaming, but awake

 

back broken, pierced by

raw worked-up springs;

I bleed, and I can dream—

as a drop of red spilled behind

lids—unhealed, unfed—can dream

 

of eyes, of eyes, that wish

for something to rest on

for hours, and hours to come;

for something to rest on, eyes

with no blood, no coils as rich

 

as sharp, as to cut my spine, to

splinter my vertebra—the broke

sleep of the betrayed; I wish

only for what is enough; I wish

only to touch the sleep of the loved

 

(once).

 

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