Lying on one side
Half my hair heats against the pillow.
One eyelash, linked to the lid, lies caught in linen.
One nostril breathes less freely than its brother.
One cheek is concave under cranial weight.
Half my chin presses to the pillow.
My left ear is flat beyond flattening.
A shoulder has its flagrant arm flung out, angular.
The other arm, not to be outdone by its brother,
finds a home across my wife’s breasts.
An awkward elbow, fitting nowhere, develops pins and needles.
Fingers fit as finials, some under, some over.
Some chest rests, with ribs partially crushed.
An arch beneath the bridge from chest to hip
and then the thigh, bastion of the lower half,
curls over, as my joystick, hardened,
postulates the holding up of my frame.
The thigh has that fame, and rolls down towards
the knee locked under the other knee, crossed under,
awkward huggings, impractical when walking.
Ankles, sticklers for the most convenient place to
place themselves, shift shiftily, knobble slips off knobble.
Toes keep pace with the quietly shifting space:
those toes (unlike the ankles) soft and less defined,
grubs of differing heights set as extremities,
shift around each other, nuzzling in amongst each other,
comfort spaces betwixt between, sensuous with each other,
revelling in their sockless, shoeless freedom.