Rules of Sleep
Where the legs entwine to keep the body warm Against the winter night, some cold seeps through-- It is the future... Howard Moss, Rules of Sleep

With each of the men I've loved, a collection
not meant to be a collection, an unmatched set,
there has been some symbol of tender intersection--
in the sleep of us--that I wil l never get
over, some resting of limb on limb, or sideward view;
but never one so lingering as this with you,
where the legs entwine to keep the body warm--
yours so long and softened by hair, and strong,
and completely let go on mine. A barber-pole form
flashes to mind, because we seem
entirely intertwined, though you travel as you dream.

Asleep, you speak in mutant tongues
I try to interpret, and though you unconsciously supply
repetitions for my "What? What?", no matter how I try
I cannot catch the lyrics of your songs.
Rules of sleep where I'm concerned (and concerned
is a good word for it): Some cold seeps through.
And not just chill to that hint of neck I've learned
to pull the errant comforter up onto--
but some future where no legs, at any rate, not yours,
entwine; some tragedy the silver night ignores.

Kate Light's first collection, The Laws of Falling Bodies, co-winner of the 1997 Nicholas Roerich Prize, was published by Story Line Press. Her poetry has appeared in The Paris Review, Janus, Wisconsin Review, The Formalist, Western Humanities Review, The Christian Science Monitor and Feminist Studies, and was featured on Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac. Ms. Light is a violinist in New York City.