When you speak, and fingers snap,
it’s I who tell you what to rap.
I own your hands, I own your feet,
I own all your dancing meat.
You have no home but meat and bone.
You are not you in space, alone.
If my bones break, you cannot move.
How then, my Soul, do you show love?
I’d shake you till the last bulb blew
and with the dawn do something new.
Your Soul, who’s master of his ship,
says bell your sails from toe to hip!
You’d have me break and die for fair
from endless wear and terrible tear.
But no, I’ll sleep. What can you do?
If I am tired, then so are you,
and when I sleep, you too must sleep,
and in your universe must keep,
among your dreams, inside my head,
a restful quiet in our bed,
till we awaken, straight and narrow,
freshened, like a new-fletched arrow.