You’ll be better off, they’d say: a room of your own in bed,
even listening for the phone, crumbling cheetohs alone in bed.
Stickily I finger—no one’s home– the remote again,
mirror’s hard lessons lessened by what’s overthrown in bed.
Each season leaves dimpled bruises like Daphne’s flesh,
more pillows mounded like silicone in bed.
The morning sky blushes remembering
all the lands we discovered, places we’d flown in bed.
Tattooed arm slung snoring over rounded hip—
look how softly we’ve grown in bed.
Hands held across shattered glass table,
night’s fight shoved under by what’s still sown in bed.
To hell with what we were taught about hospital corners,
restless feet lash in misery—covers blown in bed.
Open-windowed sirens go wailing unheeded;
day’s guilt a deadweight sunk like stone in bed.
When you close your eyes, doctor,
what sins do you atone in bed?
(When you close your eyes, doctor,
what sins do you condone in bed?)
the sky is bruised
with purpled patches,
gauze of white cotton
cloud strewn unsteadily
across the southern horizon.
many have come
with their beach chairs
and their expensive long lenses
to watch the herons
chase each other round
the naked winter nests
in the farthest branches.
i watch them watching
from the pipe bridge over
pregnant waters, the little islands
sunk beneath the brown and the rushing,
tree roots emerging from the current like
strange seabirds that reach
for the sky. from the squawk
on the other side of the river,
i know the herons aren’t
in the trees. they’ve found higher
ground among the shallows and
play their love games, as we do,
amid the rocks and the shadow.
The refraction of one-way windows
into remorseless blue-
puddle pasts full
glass and sad Sunday
incidentally with the co-
efficient of sweet f(r)iction that
beads sweat on rivergrass
in December sunlight.
(Their shattering is
a thing beyond
the imperfect forces that pull
bodies & universes