when I am barely there,
awake nearly and turn
back in toward sleep
all yellow-black
and
and when my brain twitches
dogwise
in the yellow-black motes and
it’s Sunday morning
in the place
where my brain is choosing sleep
in that place my brain it will
pivot
through the globe and scheme of all things
wheel and vector the whereabouts
of where about you might be
in its little globe and little scheme
and just there below sleep it will
pivot
about your smell
there where it seeps up--
it will pivot
about you,
for you are still
the music and fulcrum of my sleep