Beds
Feather-weighted by leagues of slumber
old beds reinventing themselves
as hammocks for the distilling
of sweat and foam
into an archive of dreams.
Sprung mattress’ sag like spavined camels,
or twist days and nights together
into sheets stuffed with mental laundry.
Some beds have fallen comatose,
Only to wilt on the branches of time
like boneless owls.
Beds keep their history recorded
in brain-stems, of a thousand
bodily impressions; underneath some,
old horror movies, and pornographic clips
are laid to rest.
A young boy jumps up and down on his bed.
One day he jumps very high,
when he lands he is a teenager. By his side
a young girl (both),
not knowing what to do next, until the bed
begins to whisper to them.
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