04-02-2020, 07:35 AM
Sloth
When I was young, I imagined
sleep was a lion
come to devour me.
And I would lie restless
beneath covers straining
to hear the twig’s snap.
When I closed my eyes, I would kink
like a hose ready to explode
in every direction. Though sleep I found
did not stalk with padded steps through the brush.
It dangled from above by its feet.
With arms stretching toward me, it would sway
back and forth, back and forth
relentless as the unmoving hand of the clock
like the soft click of a metronome.
When I was young, I imagined
sleep was a lion
come to devour me.
And I would lie restless
beneath covers straining
to hear the twig’s snap.
When I closed my eyes, I would kink
like a hose ready to explode
in every direction. Though sleep I found
did not stalk with padded steps through the brush.
It dangled from above by its feet.
With arms stretching toward me, it would sway
back and forth, back and forth
relentless as the unmoving hand of the clock
like the soft click of a metronome.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson