Adrienne Rich

Via Insomnia

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