1.

Propped against a tree on a sidewalk next 

to the trash cans, shorn of sheets, its fabric 

a casing for its coils, harborer of secretions 

seeped and dried, its phosphorous surface 

glitters abandoned skin flakes in moonlight, 

shingles from roof sides of humans. Mucous

trails pearlescent from a snail crawled up

the trunk of the tree upon which this bed 

formerly slept on now leans. Loved upon?

Perhaps. Dreamt on most definitely. Hands

on skin most definitely, the stains it harbors

are the trails of dreams, the shotguns aimed

at baby carriages, molars boring holes into 

the palm upon which they are cast like dice,

and the mystery of love as scratchy and fine

smelling as the needle tree that carried you

off with its scent of resin: it’s a hideous thing.

2.

Sheet marks on the face won’t disappear into

the water filling the basin. Under the eyes dark 

lakes before the resinous reflection of window

cast into mirror by interior lights set against

the night. Do you wonder if I dream of your 

shattering? Marks on the face don’t melt into 

the water. It would be strange to dream that 

hard for a stranger, even for you who became 

strange within an hour. Yet, I am waking from 

the press of your face against my face. Carried 

off over the shoulder, hauled through doorways, 

receiving your murder, once this mattress was 

bent at its middle, sagged profuse as a gaping 

blouse, and bore stains of which I was never 

aware while asleep. You knew. You were there 

too. You will dream of congress between us. 

I withdraw my hand. I refuse. Haul me away.