Sleep Begins in the Mouth

We’ve discussed this half-asleep;
our tongues like piled cottonwood
in the dry, open field.
It’s hard to know how to give
yourself to someone.
It’s the astonished snow
that returns in May as cherry blossoms;
how for weeks the branches had committed
to a brown indolence.
It’s the baritone groan of river ice,
a decision without warning to disband,
to dash its bones.
When you let your eyes droop,
the air comes into you
like into a grassland deep in the neck.
Here the horses eat from your hand.
The lump in your throat is flowering grain

Adm Dickinson

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