The Bed

We somnambulate
the tedium of hours
clotting the day
just to make it

to the darkness
where it waits,
unmade, fuming
our scent, archiving

the blasts of our furnace--
breath, keeping the shape
of palms, heels,
knees, and buttocks,

coaxing our skin,
even in our absence,
again and again,
to fire.

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