Geoff Bouvier

Sleeping Arrangements

Abed, without measure or edge, sheet-wound, the mind loosens time
from its spatial chart. Subconscious confidants relate no plot. No
need.
It all nights together – outer and inner, star with stone, soul
plus sense – seen by no sun. No need.
You’re a thousand stories up in sleep, and wired weird, but
right. Though there’s never any promise you’ll rewire plain sight by
morning light.
Those are Xs, were the eyes. That’s the human-sawn song of
steady Zs…