Clear the turnstile with tight-shut eyes,
to where the ferry rocks itself to sleep
in a rain falling so slow one must look
twice and three times to see the fine lines,
feel their spider-web dissolve on skin.
Under the whined command of a one-eyed,
monstrously-winged aristocrat, flies swim
the yellow tide, and sirens, sounding over
the water, come close and closer, then
race away again, having left the side road
for the winding inland highway. He is
very tired. And though there are things
to do, possibly important things, sleep
calls him with lies both slow and convincing.
If he can close his eyes for just a moment,
and if he can imagine her lying naked beside him,
naked except for the stolen necklace,
which only serves to emphasize her nakedness,
and if he should fall asleep and dream her
still beside him, easing him from his dirty clothes,
opening herself to his deepest need,
might he not wake refreshed, eager and
angry once more, buoyed by, rather than
burdened by the curse that has driven him here?
To the docks, to a gently rocking hideaway,
her dreamy hands clutching the net above the cot,
arms stretched above her head,
legs spreading wide to circle his waist,
rock him in a sleepy ride till the sun slips,
loses its balance, and bleeds out over the
deep blue waters of the now-quiet bay.