in my man’s palm I lay my tired ear
and it’s like I can enter there completely
sleeping eyes opened a wise child’s nap
my primer book on my knees

he draws the curtains slowly
to prevent sunburns on my front
wipes a bead of sweat with his fingers
I simply don’t think at all

because all that I ever asked him
was just that round and small bed inside his left palm
where all my dreams could die
for real

this man is not alive
only his palm touches my temple my ankle my hip
he draws them in broken lines while I’m still asleep
eyes opened