slowly creep closed. the way your eyebrows inch upward
to elongate your face, your lashes weigh tons
and the little crick in your neck begs to be soothed,
but time does not stop: your eyes cannot close
for the night is only half the day—the sun is not
the maker and i am nocturnal when i want to be.
but now my eyes are sagging, my mouth is dry
and the summer air through my fan pushes my hair about,
forces itself into my eyes and over my skin
like the touch of a lost kindred lover—i am alone
tonight but the breeze blows into my eyes
and i will have a good love-making with this woman
in my bed, known as sleep. she soothes me.