Lying in bed,
I walk the road
inside my head.
All but impossible
not to follow
hand over hand
the quaking bridge,
the snaking rope,
not to assemble
thought by thought,
twig by twig,
strand, chip, thread,
button by bead by domino;
not to twirl
a world in progress
between my fingers,
not to complete
a nest in which
to lie awake
and curl and shift
and sigh and stretch
and wait for sleep.