Poem

My thumb fell asleep
in a book of poems,
between two pillowy words,
married there for eternity,
or until the mountains melt.

It did not take me long
to wonder if it was dead.

But we all know how these
things of gentle fear go.

If I nudge it,
wake it from its sleep,
or death,
forgiveness is void.

To die in one's sleep,
thumb or beast,
or language,
is all we ask.

This is all we ask.
Do not ask the how,
or when
or by fire
water
razors
concrete
strawberry
hypothermia
or by massive passions.

Scored dreams fold at the seams.