Awake—the raking of Rachael’s nails
against Deckard’s skin seemingly disappears off-
world, carrying along. Deckard back between
occipital and pillow—his ceiling and parietal,
fights against this sleep, his eyelids fall
across his stare and between this—even here.
His insistence to stay with day and night, proves
insufficient to move past this paralysis
rheum like glue between his cornea,
eyelids. Optic nerves repress something
like an undercurrent, hiding like the dirt underneath
Rachael’s nails. That something’s there to be scared of
when old deeds, kept hidden between brain and eye and spine,
linger over to R’s ear and rids of her before this distant morning comes.