The brain — beholding itself brashly with chords of 
wrought-iron wrinkles — quietly slips underneath
the sheets, far enough under to savor flavors 
of cottony cool. Growing quiet, it lingers 

in silence; the wash of fresh nothing permeates
the underside of the cotton sheet. Light breeze sweeps
against brain, cool and sweet, gentle coursing of blood 
flowing, symbiosis. Big breath — if brains could breathe — 

and the Earth turns onto its belly. Softer. Words 
upon the page crawl languidly, seeking every 
outstretched comma, liquid slow-dancing to Art Pepper’s 
saxophone honey. How long since the brain shuttered

down to the slow, smooth taste of silence? If only
a poem could always be read in blissful rest.