Tuesday Poem: My life asleep by Jo Shapcott

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The Independent Culture
Everything is loud: the rasp of bed-sheets,

clamour of hair-tangles, clink of teeth.

Small sweat takes up residence in each crease

of the body, but breathing's even, herself warm,

room safe as a London room can be.

The tube rumbles only metres underneath

and planes for Heathrow circle on the roof.

You'll find the body and all the air it exhales

smellier than by day; she's kinder, more supple.

Bend close to catch the delicacies of sleep,

to hear skin tick, to taste the mandragora

of night sweat. Lean forward and put a finger

on the spot you think the dream is.

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