The chance is to run out of sleep and as with the arc of a vaulter here already 
                                                                                                        in correspondence; 

little bricks of familiarity
                          still lodged in the images; 

                                                                          is it you still asleep turning over in the bed
            or the sound of the blood in the blood vessel in my ear? 

First thought is death—we know that. The second assesses the stages of light
(whatever I am doing there is an occurrence surrounding me).

                                                      I want to open something private and give it a name;
                                                                                                                walking through the exact;

the rupture of dawn repeats. 
It would be better if we were listening to the same tone together,

                                                                                                                but the noun is engorged
                                                                                              and we don’t think we can have it

                                                                  (alt: I tried to press through the material but
was fatigued and could only gesture toward an imagined spot in front of us).

                                                                  Who will feel the line
                                                                                                        buzzing in the jaw?

Anchored right here?