Member Rara Avis
A man lies in bed,
His plastic rosary casting green lights
On his cup of honey-lemon tea.
The sunlight casts its weight,
But he won't move from its heat.
He sweats his soiled sheets.
His right eye feels sore.
Like it has seen exactly enough
To be useless and bruised.
He breathes in careful strokes,
Coughs at the clockless wall,
The silence, the warmth.
Poetry is his church.
Words are his vices as well as his help.
He pens one more in his head.
"A pillow is your best friend.
You can fight with it; it will never harm.
You can whisper to it; it will keep your secrets.
"It keeps your knees cushioned in prayer.
It doesn't mind when it ends up on the floor
When you've made love.
"It stays as your life reaches its top;
Holds you as you fall apart,
Gently, just as slowly, to gears.
"Always soft, the pillow collects you.
You lose yourself in pieces, you see.
If you wash it enough, you will be gone.
"Finally gently holding your head
As you worry and are afraid.
With it, you are with someone."
He finds he can't open his eyes.
Hot light like a bright spill in the sky,
[This message has been edited by bsquirrel (edited 08-01-2000).]