This bed will be useful
for the firewood we'll need soon.
The fibers spit to light up,
heavy smoke in new mechanical hands.

All night I lie exposed to the salts
of this old matress.
Buttons falling to the rug with every move.
The smell of a garage,
I dream of wagons, bonnets
next door for a quarter.

Jars of jelly, dusty on the metal tool shelf.

I lie anchored for nine hours.
Aloe clawing into scratches in
the shape of a slow dripping
"X".
The holistic sort of clinic calls it
Pent up. No medicine?
Noises in the autumn wall
shake up the teeth
that batter my stomach.

If I just peel the bad skin away.
It is alive for me, sick
because I cannot think clearly.

The fruitless room
- still a garden
for the fingers that wrap themselves
around my last rib.

Smouldered isn't good enough.

10/08/2005

Posted on 10/09/2005
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