The title randomly occurred to me. I couldn't resist.
Day.
Drip.
Sleep.
Long.
Cold.
Night.
Tuesday
Night
or day
it doesn't matter. Cold
slimy drip
down long
thin spaces. Sleep.
Wednesday
I sleep
and dream up misery for you. I dream the night
which shuts your eyes forever, and I've waited long
for that day.
And I close my eyes – drip
warm, warm water, on the cold lamb's skin.
Thursday
Bitch. Couldn't give life, but you couldn't take it either. Cold
your eyes, and you were sick inside. You sent me down to sleep.
A pebble falling – drip!
And no one heard. But in the night
you lie awake and hear me well. When does the day
come? Not for you. Too long, too long.
Friday
Sick inside. Long-
-suffering bitch, thou cold
teat. What was it they gave you that day?
Not what you'd dreamed of in your sleep
so many years. A mirror. Your own features, sure as night
is dark, but yet it didn't smile. You couldn't stand it. And it sapped your milk – drip, drip.
Saturday
Is it mine? Drip,
drip, on the water, but I don't feel anything. Long
in the night
that doesn't end, I kept my count, but now on the cold
slimy stone, the shaking finger slips; a part comes off; this red runs out. Sleep!
promises the water, but I can't. One more day.
Sunday
No day dawns again. No force left in the arms like water. It's so cold.
But they don't know. Long lying in the wet stone womb, so far I sleep
But night must end. Today I will be born again!