I have found myself in
a conflicting state of sleep or sweep
Sleeping is easy
My duvet is down and soft
I wrap my legs around it at night or
once I finally decide to open my eyes
bury my head under it during the day
letting its translucence wash my form
in the western light that floods my room
The longer I stay here
in different postures of rest and content
the more aware I become of my body
I clutch my belly and feel its folds
lightly feather the space above my hip
that encourages muscles I do not use
to contract and tell my brain, intimacy
fingertips, nails chipped and smooth
This is not primal sleep
it is lucid hibernation
When it washes over me completely
I am both paralyzed and euphoric
my dreams keep me on my back
and I truly can choose any One
to come lie next to me and I do
When this becomes unsatisfying
I sit up straight in my bed and am awake
put both feet on the hardwood floors
stretch out the soreness of sleep
shower then find a garment that suits me
put the kettle on the back burner
and spoon coffee into a clear cylinder
As I wait for the whistle to call me
my eyes begin to adjust to living
and the only thing I want to do is sweep
It is a simple chore but it astounds me
as I recount the hours of stillness
that somehow created this debris
I pull out the broom and dustpan
and start at one side of the room
my back is bent over uncomfortably
the look on my face is not pretty
but eventually I gather the remnants
of things that settle into corners
into a pile in the middle of the room
The running joke is you never can
sweep them all into your dustpan
there will always be a trace of the past
collected in a straight line, out of reach
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