8/2/00

women sleep like their infants
a closely connected dance that
          begins in their wombs
I would wake in the dark
          pulled by some internal moon
before my baby even stirred
zombie walk to crib side
to put to breast an infant
          that still smelled of sleep

poetry feels like that waking
a calling to write that comes
          from some internal place
try to produce a substance
that is only a few cells less then blood