Slipping to sleep in the quick reckoning,
a woozy misspent bloom
sticks heavy at the grip of the merging,
tracks of tread on the leaf.
Sleep, my sweet, in the ornery meadow,
where a daisy’s knees do not slack or wobble,
where the pollen mingles over the stump of the will,
where roots float in the loam,
and petals are folded like hands.