Hole in the Ground

My bed is sharp-fitted into a corner
And I can trace the angle with my eyes
Around the skirting,
Following the trails of black on white dust
That never seem to lift,
The hairs jumping in the fan breeze
And the invisible poisons crawling creaking floorboards,
Always towards that corner.

This is not a good state of affairs,
Sleeping on a hardwood floor
So nothing can live under the bed,
So I can curl it up and shake it out each morning
Until it’s clean as a burnt hair.
But I can’t sleep,
Because of the mirrored walls,
Four sides all the same, reflecting to the corner,
The pictures of the steel-trap world outside
The unbeatable dust shuddering like monuments.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s