Called up in sleep: your voice:
I don’t know where I am...
A hand, mine, stroking a white fur surface
you as white fur hat unstitched, outspread
white as your cold brancusian marble head
what animal’s pelt resembles you?
but these are my navigations: you don’t know where you are
Is this how it is to be newly dead? unbelieving
the personal soul, electricity unsheathing
from the cortex, light-waves fleeing
into the black universe
to lie awake half-sleeping, wondering
Where, when will I sleep
for Tory Dent