My sleep juice is slow.
I feel it pooled in my knuckles,
soaked into supposedly
dexterous tendons.
I see it fizz in my eyes,
a clinging veil just
vaguely frosted.
It takes a few minutes
of clenching fists
and wiping glasses
for the sleep juice to retreat,
sucked back to brain
through waking nerves.
I hope my sleep juice
doesn’t weigh down
my face into basset hound
eyes and jowl like
I see it in my sister,
always betraying
when you’ve caught her
after an oddly-
timed nap.