i always–when waking–
find myself to be in strange
and different places the
thingummy along different lines
than these otherwise calico
and maddening thrusts of
colour cascadeling
sideways through my
eye sockets. the red glare
these days of a thousand
rubbing nights when
pale sheets cling hungrily
to legs and flesh and the
whole body-body is coated
with am as it were, filmy
sheen of sweat or perspiration
or as it were dampness
and so these bedclothes–
so to speak–become
twisted in the knotted heat
and belaboured dreams that
beat at the heart of
my nightly nights