Don’t you ever sleep? She asked. For years,
I examined each memory kind enough to surface
for assessment, self-corrupted or virginal, even
otherwise, only to realize I’ve been doing nothing
else. It’ll come the time when she asks,
Are you awake? And I’ll reply,
I’m keeping one dream alive,
for when I die it'll die with me,
and if I rise there’ll be no one
in bed to fee—look,
it’s fading, so feeble:
Bring us breakfast, fast.
