I dream in broadcloth,
slumber
in the starched infinity of things unseen; I rely
on the coarse, unlaundered
indifference of night.
I go to the stars' brief grave in gratitude
and rest upon their cases dressed
in silk;
their sands sift through the face of my grainy pillow.
I must wear sackcloth like a sleeping
saint,
let it cover me
in an airy
shroud.
The remnants of eternity must seep like dust into my
skin's
soft summary; I must agree
to not care at all for dawn's quilted rhapsody
of light.
— Mary Rudbeck Stanko
