by Ben Koch

Photo ©

If by mandatory law

we wore what we slept

in some random day, say April

17—prevented by

legislation even touching

a comb, at most sliding on

some slippers in a haze—

simply walked the world in dream

armor, frizzle-headed sleep-

crusted and wrinkled by the

friction of sheets: which of us

would cower slinkishly

like shell-less turtles, which would prance

like shame-less show dogs,

and this—

how would we choose the


This poem appears in The Frequency of Whispers,

a published collection of Ben Koch’s poetry.


About bensten

Teacher, writer, blogger and spiritual practitioner. Managing editor of

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