"And Here Face Down Beneath the Sun..."

The light is coming up over you
as you sleep, worn out from travel,
the day's work still ahead.
Always something carried
over, it seems, always yesterday's
work unfinished, weighing on
the day to come,
where now you sleep,
the light coming up
around you, deep blue
of heaven cracking
on dresser, mirror.
The ocean is cold here
and vast, it suits you
and because it opens it is enough
for you,
the great wildness of it without feature,
raw with light,
white clouds and the boats on the water,
light floating on sky that is water
and you sleep as it gathers around you
great and calm;
the day isn't making any deals
and as it opens the sky
seems to grow hazy, light spread behind
and around the clouds, marine layer with greys
and grey-blues, and spots of white and all still so quiet
though inside your mind the silence has grown dull
with dread for the work to be done
and for the work still left undone,
the body's tired cells churning
out of duty, though once love burned there
and smoulders still,
smoky, with taste of charcoal on the
lips. Sunk in sleep, still the day
holds a tenderness
out to you and you don't quite refuse it, you
want to go out of yourself and meet it,
as you will meet it soon,
the gulls crying out and the taste of salt
and seaweed on the air heavy with dawn
and the damp boards on the sides of the
houses just off the boulevard, grainy, and the traffic
that never stops, louder, heavier now, the light on the wall
and around your shoulders, a few
more minutes
until night turns away completely and you wake to
coffee
and accept the yoke, said to be easy, and bear
the light burden; with compassion morning bends
over you though you do not see, the kiss
of cloud, first sun, kiss of salt air, what
spirit flees now, shy to be seen, bestowing,
claiming nothing. It is the secret heart at the center
that keeps you, though you do not know, that carries you
where you can not go.