what my hand finds as she sleeps

My hand wades out of the dampness

of your knee pit

and onto the mattress

and then the cold floor where it treads

so flinchingly – finds the spout of your

carafe, used yesterday to overwater

the little cacti

spaced across the grimy sill

with the view of the best hotel

in Montreal – finds a lathed

leg, grabs hold and blindly scrawls

the name

I have awoken with as well

as sketches all the high jinks

I want to enliven your body for – finds 

the mole on its callused palm,

gently kneads it

with insouciance and then with angst –

I am tiring of rest –

but when it sets upon the coarse 

bristles of a hair brush I am sure

if it can untangle the covetous

frond of Indian hair at your back

with care enough, then I might keep 

you asleep for hours more, or days.