after Roberto Juarroz
As I sleep, my two hands come awake
and work their craft, create or unpick
some halfway human body, stitch by stitch,
play Frankenstein all night behind my back.
I hear them, from my sleep: I hear them groom
this bastard demi-ghost, this bloodless golem,
doctoring its life, its other death.
I wake, with two hands folded on my chest.