Sleep.
In a matter of a lifetime she would pile on years,
Pile on specks of dirt under the eyelids,
But not for too long.

Pile on too much at once,
And the eyelids would never open
Except with a pair of prying pincers.

A close glazing
Over the wrinkled folds of skin.


She left the room
With barely a brush of the hands.
To draw the scant bedsheets
Over the body on the nest bunk.

A glance over the other pair of hands
Pointing which-ways into occupied space
With piled-on molecules of air
She swept over worn stubs.

Her hands were like pincers.