— Jerry Dyer

My bed was once a tree.
But whose hands planed the headboard
I don’t know.
I can’t name the kind of wood
that hammocks my blind breathing,
have no clue
what soil once fed its roots,
no inkling of the vistas
the squirrels enjoyed,
no memory of the rains
that plumped the bole so fat with life
that it can hold me
while I dream.

Night after night I sleep,
bolstered by lumbered branches.
In my lifetime, how much cotton
will my restlessness consume?
How many geese will fall from the sky,
to soften my head’s slow journey

One thought on “Bed

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