Contra Collins
by Timothy Reed
I once read a poet
who always spoke of sleeping
back to back with his wife,
and I envied
that sort of stable sleep.
Clearly he had a cardigan comforter
and was at home in his skin --
and I envied.
Seems I sleep in all sorts of
weird geometry, sometimes near
sometimes far - getting an existential crick.
My vertebrae seizing and clenching --
their own protest agains the draconian
confines of my skin.
* Written upon reflection of Billy Collins' "Whale Day".
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