It's Monday.
The glorious week begins.
A slow tide comes in.
Head light with comedy,
on the inside.
On the outside--
too heavy for my neck.
Cheeks pillowed
by pillows.
Still folded in bed
like some kind of warm
dumpling.
Sleep, the small death,
the big sleep.
I like sleep a lot,
maybe death will be like that.
Maybe Keats was right
before the last tussles ripped tissues apart like you would strip a bird.
The week
lies at my feet,
Rome,
this week the students go home.
I can't say I'm not glad,
glad for anything to end
even what makes me happy.
All my limbs fit in this nest
but they travel long distances
away from me.
1 comment:
the death/sleep theme is powerful...
Is there a particular age when one begins to contemplate these things?
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