The logic of sleep draws me closer and closer to you,
taking the names of everything from me. My desire
to speak is suspended, my old reverence
for language gone. Geography tells me who I am:
I rest in the contour of wind in the curtain,
in the soft recesses of this blanket;
what reason was there to pronounce my name?
The logic of sleep tells me to let pans of myself
leave me. Later they'll come back, crossing
a threshold I can't find, carrying no bags,
unexhausted by travel. I send them off
with an image of this room's darkness lifting
the ceiling higher, with a wish for souvenirs:
a face I'd forgotten, a flight of stairs, an idea.
The logic of sleep tells me I can see without eyes,
insists I abandon measurement and calculation.
When I follow, the drift of each moment
sustains me, as silence sustains connecting phrases
of song. And what I strove for by day—certainty,
unerring plans-seems worthy of only mild regard.
The logic of sleep is a demanding one.
It sinks me in the moment so deeply I lose
my sense of the world, so far I am not myself
without you. Now is the time for union,
for concord impossible by any waking reason:
as the logic vanishes, let it take us part way, too,
leaving us to possess a nearly unattainable hour:
the necessary ending, this rest in one another.