our bed is a golden stream

we are stones rubbed smooth

 

legs flash unremembered

dream below watery sheets

 

we are wooden coins floating

on the eyes of the dead

 

Seven minutes and the alarm again

Seven minutes and again the alarm

 

we are the floating dead until

the fluttering beep

 

shakes the dust from our heads

flies the sheets from our bed

 

First published in New Leaf 23, 2007 .