The Space between Sleep and Awaking

There is a space between sleeping
and awaking.
Which is sacred.
Like an afternoon nap, with the whirr
of a slow ceiling fan,
and a blue sky etching pale yellow patches,
on a cross-stitch bedspread.
Like the stepping on water, and
allowing the foot
to hover lightly on the surface,
skiming the ripples,
while the other foot stands embedded
on solid ground.
Like a swollen dream, almost
spilling over closed eyelids,
and a circling earth holding
a circling moth.
Like a monk on the brink of nirvana.
Like the whore on the edge of orgasm.
She's walking on time, see?
She's walking on time.
And space becomes raw dust,
Spreading into nothingness under her Holy Grail.
Sacred spaces.
And indefinably
undead.