I wish I were as ready now for sleep
as I’ll be longingly in 7 hours.
The seeker’s climb to Morpheus is steep,
but falling off’s so effortless that powers
are obstructive wastes of energy.
I’ll swaddle in a waking dream instead,
and rapt in warmth and comforter, I’ll be
awaiting passage on my queensize bed.

By switch I snuff the bedside lamp. I fit
my cheek against a pillow winter-chilled.
I burrow in a nest appropriate
for human rest, by clock intention-willed
to sleep, but I’m not weary. I don’t yawn
the way I will, 6 hours hence, at dawn.