Thousand Pillows
My head has known a thousand rests;
it has floated on feathered softness,
and silk curlicued with a silken tress;
been prickled by the grass of a meadow,
under a hung menagerie of clouds.
Into rumpled sheets of sand it has pressed,
and the sleepy valleys of maidens’ breasts.
On cold concrete pavement it has lain,
my senses by a drunken torpor slain.
It has been stood up by sleep,
on origami pillows made with coats,
the rugged terrains of sofa arms,
on bony cushions fashioned with my palms,
and gold threads needled into coats of arms.
My head has known a thousand rests,
but never the rapture of a dreamless nap,
till I laid it in the sweetness of your lap.
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