……over the edge

ripped from sleep’s desert

I punch air and leap

into the days pain

roll from dampened moss

that was our bed,

and the mechanics begin,

the automaton who has

fouled the grave, again,

rises as smoke out of fire

but there are no ashes to clear.

A new dawn, new sheets?

and planted on a towel erect

an overturned soda glass

within the sheets

to assure an arid place

in this mattress creek

for arms of understanding.

 

 

dwk