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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. | ||