a variation on the word sleep
Margaret Atwood

i would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
i would like to watch you,
sleeping. i would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as it's smooth dark wave
slides over my head
and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of blue-green leaves
with it's watery sun and three moons
toward the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear.
i would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. i would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again and become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in the two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me and you enter
it as easily as breathing in.
i would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. i would like to be that unnoticed
and that necessary.