It began as a thing like sleep,
overtook me in the same slow way
a current of syrup advancing up my nerves.
Sometimes it hid the name of my street
or the key that locks my sphincters.
Cold mornings, I forgot my hands.
At each frontier I'm overthrown.
A cloud owns the world and I feel
I am made out of honey and ashes.
Who are you there behind
who rolls me into the sun,
What love are you,
you who have always been there?