My bed is a hole in the desert.
Escalators of sand descend into it.
Pulling up legs
like sucked-on pens or loose teeth,
I claw my way up one side at night -
the other in the morning.
It is tedious. Whether
making for the overgrown runway
of sleep, or the hanged, blue,
wind-skinny corpse
that is my dressing gown,
the bed makes itself vast
and plays its spool of mirages
with the slide projector sun,
the magic lantern moon.
