The sweet palms of sleep did not fall upon me for too many minutes last night. And in the brief periods of rest I did get, dreams came thick and fast (that’s frozen custard thick, not warm carrot soup thick). In those few moments between hitting the snooze button and awaking to the second alarm – barely time, you would think, for a short-short story – my mind seems to have squeezed in an epic, six-hundred page novel or two. I wake in need of a sleep.
One turns to literature for consolation – and like all good women, it obliges. I was reminded, in this case, of Eva Holubk’s poem fat and careless curator of my thoughts, which I duly reproduce in its entirety – and in usual Holubk fashion – below.
More on Holubk here.