Sleeping Naked Russell Rowland Who wants to tug fresh pajamas over sticky elbows, knees: this film of July humidity that won’t wash off? No one will be offended or aroused, or suspect me of meaning to arouse. Gravity’s long dirty work is undone a few supine hours. Sags disappear, flab settles between the hippy bones, ribs emerge: spars of a derelict. Such lean meat I am, while prone. I toss, evading sleep. My little man founders left and right in the foam of sheets. The needle cannot find north. It is many a lonely night since he was proud to be a prick. Sleep wins. On backs of eyelids the show begins. The ring is in my pocket, in a small velvet box. I inhale perfume. It is a dream— I can’t prevent what happens next.
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