There is this woman sleeps
at the back of my mind.
To be more explicit:
she’s woven a room in the fold of my eye,
shadow along the lens
as a spider across the crease
of a curling leaf.
There she sleeps.
Meantime, from time to time
another one,
this one or that one,
has searched the reach of the rest of my body
or colored the cell of a thought.
Blindly, I’ve loved them all.
When I open my eye
she waits.