Langston sleeps like an animal, like a little cub that is still clawing and pounding on the walls in his dreams. He hums; he blows bubbles; he sticks his tongue out and sighs. Langston sleeps like a monster; he makes monster faces by contorting his bow of a mouth to one side and growling; Langston sleeps like Burt Reynolds probably slept in the 70s. He's confident; he spreads out and kicks when he must, but he still has a million dreams; dreams where he is running, where he is still pounding down the walls, one at a time. Langston sleeps a lot; he sleeps on me, curled up on a ball, knees bent over my soft belly; he coos and sighs. Sometimes I think he's singing.