Thou art more than the day or the morrow,
the seasons that laugh or that weep;
For these give joy and sorrow;
but thou, Proserpina, sleep.
If asked to choose: eternal life or sleep,
he’s not sure how he’d answer. And he aches
over the word “forever” and the leap
of faith the word requires. To be awake—
to be alive— in the sputtering wake
of some greater being whose unseen leap
disturbs the waters ’til a phantom ache
deep in his legs can shake him from his sleep.