Called up in sleep: your voice:
I don’t know where I am...

A hand, mine, stroking a white fur surface
you as white fur hat unstitched, outspread

white as your cold brancusian marble head
what animal’s pelt resembles you?
but these are my navigations: you don’t know where you are

Is this how it is to be newly dead? unbelieving
the personal soul, electricity unsheathing
from the cortex, light-waves fleeing
into the black universe

to lie awake half-sleeping, wondering
Where, when will I sleep


for Tory Dent