THE SLEEPING TRUST Poem by Kiki Dimoula

At night,
that angelform melting,
kneading the body with sleep's lotions,
creaming its defenses, it is
no physiotherapist.
It is your new employment in storage,
treasuries, safe deposit boxes — you can't see
blindfolded by the bosses.
Invisible telecontrols
direct your secret practice.
Your work is this: to not know
what it is you guard or until when.

Dreams? Do they trust us? Most often
we rob them leaving in their stead
beautiful forgeries as real.

Now, for this storage post they choose
for reasons of security
bodies who sleep alone
on hard unyielding anatomic beds

since stuffing, inner springs, latex and curves
are busy growing someone else

on the empty side —

their fluffy anomalies roll him to the dent
your worn attention sinks, your sleeping trust
keeps making room for him till danger
grazes what you guard.

Before these measures were enacted
you sometimes woke up in the morning
on the floor, dream

eye punched
purple, strange fungi sleeping
on pillow-top and foam,
and every store-room open.

Now, before sleeping, latch
windows, bolt the doors
and, as your ribcage is unlocked on either side,
drag tables vanities the wardrobe and the hutch
washing-machine night-table the TV —
blockade and barricade it.