The Temperate Valley

Lie on rock Think of feathers While this cave keeps me sheltered I’ve slept like any man Crawling through dreams As bones curl Round, like limp branches On an empty willow. And hair dampens in our quiet cellar Or like an old rope, lost in trampled mud. Pale skin, creased and folded, Folding over. Murmured withdrawals As the face drips down, Down, to where the fleas feed on inviting fingers. But I’ve tossed and turned And tussled with my thoughts To wake screaming in unfamiliar rooms. Dusk to dawn, The smell of a burning nest, Yet I lay still on a crushed pillow Waiting for something and nothing As the outside claws at the half open windows. And the birds seem to sound like sirens.