The Trouble With Poetry and Other Poems

by Billy Collins

Breathless Some like the mountains, some like the seashore, Jean-Paul Belmondo says to the camera in the opening scene. Some like to sleep face up, some like to sleep on their stomachs, I am thinking here in bed— some take the shape of murder victims flat on their backs all night, others float face down on the dark waters. Then there are those like me who prefer to sleep on their sides, knees brought up to the chest, head resting on a crooked arm and a soft fist touching the chin, which is the way I would like to be buried, curled up in a coffin in a fresh pair of cotton pajamas, a down pillow under my weighty head. After a lifetime of watchfulness and nervous vigilance, I will be more than ready for sleep, so never mind the dark suit, the ridiculous tie and the pale limp hands crossed on the chest. Lower me down in my slumber, tucked into myself like the oldest fetus on earth, and while cows look over the stone wall of the cemetery, let me rest here in my earthy little bedroom, my lashes glazed with ice, the roots of trees inching nearer, and no dreams to frighten me anymore.