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Copyright Paul Cantrell
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Falling Asleep

There are names, you know, for everything here --
names to conquer the mind's wilderness,
divide it, make illusions
of the simple facts of our senses -- awkward names,
grotesque -- they fit like borrowed clothes.
I will not use them here --

Here -- where the thoughtful arch of your fingers
your hair in my face, our half-cold feet
are the whole world -- every direction
draws inward as we curl under
the sensation of our whole shape, lingering
at the warm edges of sleep -- here --
among these stories older than words --
I glow with the bewildered, innocent affection
of a child for a still-nameless wonder.