My bed calls my name
even in the afternoon
whispering seductive comforts
into dulled ears
That couch is a bed
in disguise it says
blankets kicked off by
anonymous feet
decades before mine
An armchair really is
a conformed hammock
waiting to cradle my bulk
between loose arms of
stuffed fabric
A table actually is s
a set of broken box-springs
held up by wooden legs
still creaking under
ghostly bodies
The floor is one big blanket
rough carpet pulled up around the edges
to engulf you
The crest between two mountains
Is your eye-pillow
sunken into the mattress
of my imagination
