You sketch me a planet with familiar volcanoes
and I tack it up, thread it through the folds of my sleep.
At 1:57 I catch its peaks. I know because my clock’s too bright.
Blue slots through paper thicken into blares of hot light
slicking me as I turn. My joints cradle the bed,
and it’s the bed that sleeps, not me. Linens blur,
re-focus against the points my muscles make.

If you were here you’d lay your palm across my face,
all water and weight, and I’d loop my arms
into yours and sink. Slow and wide, you’d wake again
to an ache in the shape of my chest on yours and
unlink yourself. Still, I’ll paw at you as I drift,
a sea creature scraping back to the water line.

It’s true: I don’t know my place.
You are here and I can’t sleep.
You are not here and I can’t sleep.
Which is to say you keep me moving.