slipping, shifting

Sleep's Quick Sands

The sound of sand
slipping, shifting
beneath head,
below heel
as sleep comes
in sonic waves,
tossed and turned,
between suns
burned brightly,
adrift on oceans
soon swallowing
our senses
as they have
the identities
of the dead.

Hold me here
where night lingers,
fingers wet with
tidal desires,
washing over
and wiping away
the day's first
but not lasting
impression,
the slight, unseen
displacement
of grains,
shifting, slipping
through our
braille hands.

The sound,
the splash

of together again,

over and over,

ad infinitum,
like burials at sea,
drowning out
the sibilance
of our sighs,

the semblance
of our names,
lost to us
for the hours,

the yawn of years,
we lie below
the leagues
of sleep's
quick sands.

photo by john gay, blackpool 1949