and then he softly puts his hand on my nape,

that exact spot where my label is going to sprout once –
that is, as soon as somebody kind and caring assigns me a proper brand.
another hand, in a complicated combination
that I am hesitant to imagine
and am not able to see,
he puts on my head in a thrifty master’s gesture.
and I am swiftly folding up into this tiny gap,
like an ancient telescope,
like an obnoxious skyscraper, skilfully blown up,
like Alice after ‘drink me’,
and glide down my narcoleptic sleep.