Hugh Behm-Steinberg

Sleep

She was tired and dreamt of sleep.   How it would come gracefully
over  her  body.  As  she  curled beside the window.  As she sat in a
chair. How the rhythm of the house as it was settling would slowly
match  her own  breathing.  The  air that slid between the  window
and  the sill.  The  shadow  that moved from the curtain across  the
floor like  a  promise.  She imagined  that  it  is  through  sleep that
separate  objects  no one  would consider  as  joined  are  gradually
coming  together.   A  presence  that  is  felt  as  weight.   Of  feeling
enormous  and  small.    Ancient  clocks  exercising  restraint.    The
sound  of  a  car  driving  down  the  street. The  smell  of  wet  hair.
Two lovers in the dark, mingling.