top of page

Beds

 

 

I slept in my chair last night. So soft was the sinuous motion of my exhalations one would be square in thinking I slept as silent as the grass on the green briar’s edge near where the water winds its way westward over no end of rock and gravel so rough and yet with such smooth surface of feeling quite serene and silken to the touch with a skin as transient and delicate- so tenuous and quick to break- it's easy to think one might float eternally on this fragile illusionary fabric, a film of moving liquid like evanescence in motion. It’s breaking. I feel myself slowly sinking soon to hit the ground, buffeted by rocks and gravel; there’s so much debris beneath the surface. Quiet, now, quiet; rise and rest once more on waves that roll. Close your eyes and sleep. But don’t touch the river’s bed. It’s sharp, carpeted with jagged stone. The surface is soft. The surface is kind. This facade will keep you afloat, as long as you don’t sink beneath. Lie, like the silken touch on skin. Lie to yourself. This smooth surface is swaddling; this frail fabric of molecular tension can shroud jagged stone. Just, don’t sink. Don’t sink to the riverbed.

        Sleep sitting upright, out of bed, in a chair instead.

bottom of page