Some like the mountains, some like the seashore,
Jean-Paul Belmondo says
to the camera in the opening scene.
Some like to sleep face up,
some like to sleep on their stomachs,
I am thinking here in bed–
some take the shape of murder victims
flat on their backs all night,
others float face down on the dark waters.
Then there are those like me
who prefer to sleep on their sides,
knees brought up to the chest,
head resting on a crooked arm
and a soft fist touching the chin,
which is the way I would like to be buried,
curled up in a coffin
in a fresh pair of cotton pajamas,
a down pillow under my weighty head.
After a lifetime of watchfulness
and nervous vigilance,
I will be more than ready for sleep,
so never mind the dark suit,
the ridiculous tie
and the pale limp hands crossed on the chest.
Lower me down in my slumber,
tucked into myself
like the oldest fetus on earth,
and while the cows look over the stone wall
of the cemetery, let me rest here
in my earthy little bedroom,
my lashes glazed with ice,
the roots of trees inching nearer,
and no dreams to frighten me anymore.