So un-asleep, the sheet’s
a beach of footprints
waiting for the tide.
Her shape question-marked,
crucified, an inquisition
scales her eyes.
Wincing at infinities,
she stares a spot
and picks at it.
Each star a prick,
a javelin
thrown across the centuries
makes waves
just deep enough to swim
before light breaks
her open skin.
I've always been partial to the use of an "un" suggesting some intermediate state of being that may be mysterious. It used to be used far more, so is probably frowned upon these days, not by me.
The final stanza is like a delivery system for the arriving day, laid gently onto shifting sands.
My interpretation only, others are available.
Delightful.
David.
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penguin
Thu 11th Apr 2024 08:07
Thanks, David. Meant to be about sleeplessness.