but surprised at having,
sometime in the night, opened up
an old cut on my pinky.
Small dribbles of dried blood
smeared my cheek and pillow case,
made uncomfortably sticky my sheets and bare
chest, even my hair and underwear.
What sort of ungainly
or manic maneuvers
had my unsupervised body
undertaken? I wondered.
As I began to run the shower,
I shuddered to think, while I sleep,
of all the unpopular places
my unpoliced, renegade
fingers must travel—
all the old faces, the awkward,
sentimental, silent embraces
these foolish hands must
dare to reach out for,
which, upon waking,
I'm certain they'd never
wish to be caught dead holding.