In bed, I learn to love my body.
In bed, I expect nice dreams only.
Nowhere, but in bed I begin to rest
because the new day is about to dance.
My own bed never resembles a royal bed
because it’s a vagabond’s night nest only.
No question about where to lay my body.
It’s just a matter of how to treat the flesh.
A bird needs a cage to pass the long night.
A lion needs a cave to warm his cold body.
A crab desires a hole to anticipate seawater.
And I need a bed to rest my exhausted mind.
In bed, I try learn to know two worlds in turn.
Sometimes the real one; sometimes the unreal.
There is always a time to be so happy in bed.
And there is also a time to be so sad in it.
“The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
Share
Print
Save
Follow
