THEFT OF LINES FROM CERNUDA Sleep is true to us as shadow flowers from its object: a vacant calm with wings too young for flight in an isolate dawn where it hears no crowing, nothing. Desire in sleep goes down inward corridors past many cells. Is it yesterday held there? Tomorrow? Neither. Where the head rests is a land of exile, time and history are banished to the stars, dormitory of corpses, and the body has only its drowsing, the guard it keeps awaiting true dawn.