Incubus

You are blown towards me
by a dream, jaw grinding
at the bit of sleep. The thrown
duvet leaves your back
exposed to the cold hand
of the air. The sounds you make
are like questions. Your breathing
is distant, a shiver of cymbals.
Your wrists and ankles knot
themselves. The night is twitching
and bound inside you, unable
to wake. I kiss your cheek.

Gregory Leadbetter

If you've any comment on his poem, Gregory Leadbetter would be pleased to hear from you.