Force of Habit
How to know all my habits?
Strange creatures
with a kind of love.
Oysters, which eat to understand:
water is a spice,
and the surgeon and his wife
work in my bed.
Poems on the topic: bed
Poems on the topic “bed” on Poets.by.
Catadromous
I work all afternoon.
In the evening to the sea—
a raw bed.
The Committee on Ships
My men and I met, a committee
to consider ships,
to see what it is
they desire from water:
winehouse, home or bed?
Or news of the night…
Armistice
Twenty-five ships, and we could not
make an end of Monday.
On land, we met with castles.
Our rest was troubled.
I mourn the death of my bed.
Seeker
Things I miss, I do not find.
Things I find, I eat—
an essential tragedy—
and in eating, lose.
Things I take, I talk to, late
in my unquiet bed.
Homeless
I bury a friend at the green
bone of the day.
I think myself one without a bed.
The Inward Park
I look for joy and find a garden,
walk in the park endeavoring
to get into the inward park,
carry people over
through the common bed.
In/formal
I talk with my dog
where I talk to the king:
privately.
Between home and bed.
Time Traveller
Now an old
consumptive man,
cold, kept to my bed
and overtaking
the sea in sleep,
I wake to
the first night
I lay with my wife.
Insomniac
One in the morning. How to sleep?
Ash came pouring into my mouth.
I sleep on my table after dinner
and at night walk up and down in bed.
Lost
At two in the morning,
the ship not the ship
and the ending no end,
on my lost bed
I dream of having clothes
of cold water.
Sick
This morning, a whore; this afternoon, music.
I was sick in the evening.
At night, while my lord was at supper, I went
to bed, to bed, to bed.
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