Beds are no buttress, no sturdy sea-wall
to hold back the rising forces of sleep.
Beds do not dispel the gathering storms
of somnolence and sloth hanging heavy.
Beds beckon the rising tides to o’erflood
the self’s citadel, drowning us in dreams.
Waking in the downy heat of comfort,
washed-up, wallowing in weed-warm waters,
we are not refreshed, want anything but,
want nothing more than to give ourselves con-
tinually forever more to sleep.
And yet we force
eyeballs puffy and be-gritted
body and limbs abyssal-sunk,
and climb the cliffs that o’er-tower our bedraggled beachhead, up
up towards the sun that glints and gleams off ringing belltowers.
Someday I will throw all considerations aside,
all work and to-do’s and to-be’s and appointments
and see how long this bed will have me for,
how long I will ask for nothing more.