How impertinent: the mind Who can sleep with such commotion? I close my eyes and there — ! There they blend and divorce: the images, there, in my backbone. They glimmer and rush — a cave of bats, an ocean in a bottle. There are times, however, if I lie very still (soul knees drawn to chin) momentarily eclipsing these asteroidal, loud children, that I can smell the dark black richness around me. The cool, stretching stillness. And above me pass shadows, fat and round as cradles, full of habits and smoky faces; Heavy shadows hang down into this current; Serious, wood-riven: barrels of sin. The currents are quietly determined; gentle, like humored cats Cold and warm pass like kisses into one another’s cheeks I am in the middle — they wrap me in ribbons. The world is spun around me, a subterranean silk to emerge from. This, then is the goat seed — born inclined to butt forward to lower the head and heave. (Something twinkles softly: fireflies in a jar? This country darkness winks cheerfully, smiling me on.) All the while I am growing, stretching, doing the dance of trees. The sleep shore crests and shines; it is a silver lip bitten by the dark, a bold, bright girdle, a hedgerow of weaned, mouthy leaves. And I feel like a budding twig: There is a red jewel in my every eye; A flower in every vertebrae. I am an old wall whispering stories.