Night Poem
A bed made by my grandfather: white frame,
iron bars a skeleton twisting upward. The bones settle
like keys, attempting sound:
The four corners restless
arms, legs, and other. Sweating through the night;
To the furthest degree
of sanity. No one else is there. White illuminates
the waves of darkness, preventing the shutting
off of my white light. A borrowed light blinking
in sync with the shutting off of lamps. Little strings
every where like veins, pulling the actor into place. Pluck one
sever another. Soon there are swirls
of mind: through a crack draining
into the garage while I remain quilted in sleep.
The four corners restless
arms, legs, and other. Sweating through the night;
To the furthest degree
of sanity. No one else is there. White illuminates
the waves of darkness, preventing the shutting
off of my white light. A borrowed light blinking
in sync with the shutting off of lamps. Little strings
every where like veins, pulling the actor into place. Pluck one
sever another. Soon there are swirls
of mind: through a crack draining
into the garage while I remain quilted in sleep.
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