I fall gratefully into my bed of sheep.
I fall into a soft, grateful bed of sheep.
I fall into bed and I dream among sheep.
I turned my head aside – with a rush and sweep, that feeling,
Like uprising wind, smote again on my heart.
When I look in a mirror close enough, I’ll
Find that face, the imagined one beyond me.
My mind forms as a line of etching on steel:
A mark is difficult, erasure futile.