We furred at the edges
have forgotten where we each end
in this cocktail of aching sleep and wakening.
There are times
when you wrench yourself from those
dreamless drifts of pure rest
to footfall your way
to the fretting
and I can lie, wakeful for your return.
Often it is my body rising me
the way a wave pulses to the shore
I go to the child, that child who has woken
with no covers, or a dry throat or a terror filled dream.
But have I told you how
I swim in our warmth
and it is like that comfort I can give
returned and returned?
(Concentric circles, a pulse of falling,
the moon’s shadow across bed.)
You are my home and my returner
even when we are pulled awake
here in these small hours.
poemation 