Through Sleepy Glass

The dial is set to devour.
I am amassing a swarm
of blanket folds,
twisting like a shark
thrashing with love.
The pedestal is freezing.
My socks reverse-copulate,
dying off in pairs,
they vanish into cracks.
Lately getting sad
has been a sort of amusement,
like the sleeping lion at the zoo.
I watch myself slumber,
wondering if the only
time he comes to life
is when the zookeepers
go home to their wives,
boyfriends, whatever.