I sleep the smell of bricks and books,
the shucking of corn,
the porch swing on fire.

I sleep the wake of my mother's red thresher.

I sleep the business of gray cranes,
angry cats, bear pits.
In Belize, 90 degrees — I sleep a manatee mother
at the mouth of the Monkey River "

I poke her with a stick.

I'm sick in my sleep — a curl of caulk in the sheets —
I sleep mercury, tarot cards, ginger ale.
Over again, I sleep

lavender, camphor, hands,
(Her yellow dress full of strawberries? I sleep them.)

And fog.
Fieldstone and gunshots &151;
a face over the flashlight, saying   Cold
is the size of loneliness.

I sleep the front yard in her robe, waiting.

I sleep the front yard in her robe, waiting.

I sleep buckeyes and money —
gibberish and Jesus —
a brittle board over the cistern,
there I sleep jump-roping.

Falling. Algae. I sleep well
and metal pail — a dark circle, a pit
of lavender, camphor, hands —

in her robe
in the yard, waiting ... I sleep my fist

and raise myself, shaking.