I long to knit
up the raveled sleeve of care
with sleep,
that little death at end of day;
each day’s tiny death.
So unravel-led has life become
I fear that sleep
would not be perchance to dream,
but to dream
of what I’ve still to do
in waking life–
what’s left; what’s left.
To leave the sleeve
would it harm anyone?
If I appeared half-robed or clothed,
if I unraveled as I strode,
would people stare?
Would they mind?
Or would they be
more than kind,
send me home
and let me sleep
my cares away?

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