The spirit has infinite facets, but the body

confiningly few sides.

There is the left,

the right, the back, the belly, and tempting

in-betweens, northeasts and northwests,

that tip the heart and soon pinch circulation

in one or another arm.

Yet we turn each time

with fresh hope, believing that sleep

will visit us here, descending like an angel

down the angle our flesh’s sextant sets,

tilted toward that unreachable star

hung in the night between our eyebrows, whence

dreams and good luck flow.

Uncross

your ankles. Unclench your philosophy.

This bed was invented by others; know we go

to sleep less to rest than to participate

in the twists of another world.

This churning is our journey.

It ends,

can only end, around a corner

we do not know

we are turning.