I want to lie down like a tiny birch canoe,
sewn with red thread, afloat in the street
in the rushing aftermath
of a good spring rain. To curl in the y of a desert willow
at sundown when its pink blossoms
are a thousand distant lanterns strung
among the branches. At night
I prop my sleeping body like a shield.
I fly myself like a volley of arrows
toward the glowing eye of sleep’s center.
I circle its edges, closing in. I call sleep’s name
into closets and empty drawers and listen for its echo.
I want to lay my body into the palm
of my love’s hand and diminish there,
a chip of ice. I want sleep to vanish me
in its secret chamber, its magician’s hat,
where I’ll lie curled in the dark
like an unhatched bird, dreaming as my egg tooth sharpens.