Falling Asleep

The center of the palm,
foot's arch and small of back,
places that do not ordinarily
serve as points of contact
with the ground--how is it that
when on the verge of sleep
sometimes I'm aware
of these small sheltered grottoes
under vaults of bone
and feel that I own them?
Even the space that floats
between my outstretched fingers
or glances off my forehead,
transfiguring itself
like the loopy lines and folds
on a computer's screen.

As I lie still, the bed sheets
warm around me.
The edges of my body melt, until
it fills the heated envelope, a candle nub
still burning, subsiding
into a saucer-shaped pool of wax.
Then I extend a leg,
reclaiming its contours
in the tingle of chilly percale.

Clods are prodding my instep arch.
I'm gathering cabbages
or dusting the wormy ones
with a tumbled compound
of slaked lime and sifted ash.
Fields are fanning out, brown
in the slanting light behind
my speeding form.
Acres of goldenrod and wild carrot
tumble with fuchsia sky
as end over end
I roll like a giant weed
toward the dark horizon.

– lucia galloway