Sleep is a Rose, the Persians say

I want to sleep in this grass
With my own arms wrapped
Like plants that have learned
To try in the dark.
This I can do with conviction
Like a caravan of ivory birds
Circling blackened poles
Constantly, constantly.

Autumn is summer
When you lay this still
Or when you love nothing.
It is disgusting how indecision
Cradles its babies into
The great mercy.
The world is hot and afraid.

Where is the bundled up ceremony
Of wandering bodies like nomads
Stoic and breaking in sweaters
And fat warm mugs?

Where is the blood trail?
I want to see my veins.
Where is the one with the body
Like a blade of grass?
I want to sleep in this grass.

I'm telling you.
Know that of which you do not dream.
Give up.