in the dim light of storm season. The gray pillow
is dappled with uterine dots. Small as a towel
that is a blanket, thrusting my pelvis
with enough force to make wind, that is, yes, that.
When I stop to think about all the years in these
swaying rooms, I feel the trucks bump the floor
and make the bookshelves creak with the weight
of all that stuff. Positioned so as to defeat
decay with an elixir of pompous systems, I will
walk right into the night repeating myself
to myself, sure of nothing but my own hands
steering this vehicle into the purple ribbon
of sea and light, smack dab into a bland sad kitchen
with a view of the highway. Oh, how I long
for your vast metallic sleep.