ACCOUNT OF MY DAYS
Sequence: 3
THEFT OF LINES FROM CERNUDA
Sleep
is true to us
as shadow flowers
from its object:
a vacant calm
with wings too young for flight
in an isolate dawn
where it hears
no crowing,
nothing.
Desire in sleep goes down
inward corridors
past many cells.
Is it yesterday
held there? Tomorrow?
Neither.
Where the head rests
is a land of exile,
time and history are
banished to the stars,
dormitory of corpses,
and the body has only
its drowsing, the guard it keeps
awaiting true dawn.