I've replaced you pitifully many times, in
rooms, in beds where I can hear people
saying, "this man is dead." but I'm not--I'm
only sleeping--only resting--being very still.
and that's not an excuse. my very young
nephew asked when a deer was shot in a
movie, "is that deer sleeping?", and I said
"yes"--for his own good. when you are very
still, the landscape stretches and reveals new
things--monoliths, previously dots on the horizon,
loom and threaten to crush or force you to run;
smells mean everything, and as efficient as
algebra, can move you about in sleep, as if
they were pack animals bringing you of their
own accord by their own route in dead night
to a green spot, to water--divining rods itching
in your skull. thrusting my head under, I'm left
prostrate to it--your ghosts' homecoming; I'm lost
and strangled dumb with a throat full of water,
a gasp full of a dog's happiness.