my hands still stuffed in warm
pockets of your body,
morning wakes me with soft limbs
untangling myself, i am rough with you but you don’t
wake up
you are slightly sticky, no longer preoccupied
with form or construct
these vast plains and folds of skin and bones
like clothing without a person
in them
do i cradle you to wake you up
pull your hair and your arms and your legs back into shape
close my eyes and sleep again or crawl off
of the bed to drink water
or kiss the closed eyes of your
face, impenetrable and dreamless
from POEMS FROM A CYBORG (a continuing/changing project)
