By Richard Fenwick
THE TRUTH ABOUT SLEEP'S CALCULUS
hour ago the moon was framed
of center in this window,
the curtains to spill upon me
splash of milk, the flashlight
ancients, and I assume sleep
less to them than it does to me.
enough of Newton’s song
it as a body in motion, a curve
momentum on its constant slope,
in a space and bowed down
gravity, minimal enough
birds can break its strength.
even as that light passes, pillow
valance over the opposite sill,
whisper Newton’s second verse:
the body at rest tends to stay at rest.
it yawns across this room
like my last two motions to be
applied force of eyelids falling
constant curve of sleep, while
carries on with the moon.