My body knows it's not alone in bed

Sunday, six AM: the eyelids rolled
like windowblinds against the light that bleeds
in through the windows, eyes drawn back, the blood
burrowing further inward from the cold.
Under the comforter's weight
the body curls into its animal heat,
a sightless puppy nestling toward the heart-
-beat of its mother and its littermates.
It only wants what we all want: this warmth
as close as your own marrow.
In my dreams, it isn't yet tomorrow,
the coals are not yet cold piled on sleep's hearth,
I don't have to be anything but my breath.
I'm not yet hooked beneath the gills by time,
dragged up by a line
of scheduled moments ground between my teeth.
For now the blood-warmed flesh, that sweet, dumb creature
briefly liberated from the reign
(others would say tyranny) of the brain
shivers, and moves to reach her.