To sleep is to meditate without a face,
Or is it? Is it Anarch Unconscious,
Or just a gown for the mind, for the self,
A way to somnambulate the ichorous void
In tiaras and swirls? A glittered hem
Provides a border where the mind's the mind
No more, and the essential dark consoles
No more our crinolines and ribbons.
The day's crested curl has rolled itself away.--
A place arrives where consciousness ends.
And yet we look, we leer at it continually,
Continually concerned that thisness
Should end as that darkness should extend
Out beyond the mind, beyond the gown of sleep
Swishing its glittered hem like a cape, voidward
Toward nothing, toward what, toward that, toward that
That continually and perpetually
Declares us by ending us, as the hem declares the gown;
The petty grave's past tense makes present being great.
No mausoleum trumps the pomp
Of simple death.
And so we take the complement with milk
And go to sleep and lose our daily face,
Touching the antagonist in dreams.
We stand gowned, merely gowned, on the void's edge
Making our way toward the definite dark
That dreams of us, perhaps, when it wakes,
Taking its coffee and morning paper,
Sampling the headlines with its grapefruit,
Comfortable with one more dawn's gowny ends