by Margaret Atwood

    I would like to watch you sleeping，

    which may not happen.

    I would like to watch you，

    sleeping. I would like to sleep

    with you， to enter

    your sleep as its smooth dark wave

    slides over my head

    and walk with you through that lucent

    wavering forest of bluegreen leaves

    with its watery¹ sun & three moons

    towards the cave where you must descend²，

    towards your worst fear

    I would like to give you the silver

    branch， the small white flower， the one

    word that will protect you

    from the grief at the center

    of your dream， from the grief

    at the center. I would like to follow

    you up the long stairway

    again & become

    the boat that would row you back

    carefully， a flame

    in two cupped hands

    to where your body lies

    beside me， and you enter

    it as easily as breathing in

    I would like to be the air

    that inhabits you for a moment

    only. I would like to be that unnoticed

    & that necessary.

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