Contingency
I write my life.
If my letters die before I do,
I may make use
of the lax music
in my bed.
Poems on the topic: bed
Poems on the topic “bed” on Poets.by.
Refresh
O the rot
where we invite
use and ease.
We part
after music in
a one-night bed.
That sinking feeling
I go to the bar
on a boat
a hole is a looking-glass
the queen moth hanging
in many a Marriott
good wine and merry
got me
the easiest bed
Currency
I walk to the spit
to hear the water, seen
so often—
like gone money
left in a bed.
Chef in love
His oven
is calling to him
like the clamor of things to a thief:
a well-done supper
in bed.
Pillow talk
Talking in bed
about our frugal life.
What I would do
if I were a knight:
keep hope
we live to save
something from time,
go out alone to the garden
and see East India—
which we are to meet
tomorrow
in bed.
Tip for travelers
Things I use
in a glass country:
lips for business
and rice for a bed.
Three things
I saw three things belong to us:
shame and home and cancer.
Who can tell what world to order,
chosen according to what qualifications?
Give me a bed.
Inebriate
Pain with pain,
water into water:
I have so much wine
I water myself
and hew me a lodging
in a dark bed.
Valentine’s Day dreams
First an opossum crawls into our bed.
He’s tame, you cry.
Those are just love-bites.
Then it’s a long-haired white cat,
purring and snuggling.
Get her out of here, you groan.
I wake to a heavy snowfall,
the old dog statue in the yard
just a bump under the blanket.
Blankets (a simple song)
I have four blankets on my bed:
one is the color of a clear winter sky,
one is the color of the river,
one is the color of the Atlantic ocean
& one is the color of your eyes.
Lying under my four blue blankets
I am warm, too warm, I toss & turn —
not like an airplane in a winter sky,
not like a salmon swimming upstream,
not like a buoy riding out a storm
but like a piece of grit
in a drop of salt water
exiled from the blue of your eyes.
Ground Beetle
One day when I was 14
I found a ground
beetle under my bed—
glossy black,
fast & furtive.
I grabbed a thick book
& beat it to death.
I liked beetles but
this one frightened me.
It belonged under rocks
in the forest, not two feet
below my pillow,
burrowing through the carpet
while I slept.
My voice was changing.
The beetle disposed of,
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
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