Xanadu
 

I am dirt. Not the dirt that brings life, packed against bedrock, the dirt that springs up trees, and grass, and flowers. But the sandy, dead dirt on the deer’s feet. The dirt that invades despite the fact, or because, it is never invited. I am too small to be hugged. I am too small to be kissed. I am too small to be loved. But I will not doubt that the deer I cling to are disregarded more than me. They are shot dead and consumed. I am brushed off to become an unwanted access

he moves as a forever approaching sloth slowly yet defiantly. his ability to force upon drowsiness is like the drawing of a bow— the longer I hold back, the more difficult it is to resist. a moment in his presence is enough for the two small sisyphi pushing my eyelids apart to stumble; just as they always do. after he has won, after the weight of the day keeps my head on my pillow, he sets an elephant loose in my room, to rest on my chest, waiting for me to wake.