Hiding (rewrite)
Here is where I’m meant to sleep,
where people who visit these rooms
assume I sleep, astonished at the bed’s
small size, comforted by the signs
of monogamy, the coordination
of the walls with the things
on the walls with the dress
of the bed.
Here is where I lie
now, diagonally under
a green quilt, not asleep
but hiding.
My eyes may be opened wide
or closed in knots, the darkness
goes on and on, the fabric
against my nose is green
because I hold that in my head,
but erased by black, not black,
not anything, hollow
and full air. Machines
outside blow, the waste,
the pulse and proof of the living,
from whom I hide. I can’t
live right now. I can’t exist
on this plane, carry on this dumb
walking, this snuffed staring
into darkness. A car arming
itself startles me and I jerk,
then the sound distills into
the night, and the night stretches
its resilient black sheet, and my eyes
unwind in their black, and I continue
lying here, corner to corner until
you come into the room,
you stroke my quilted leg,
you claim your side of the bed,
you need to sleep.
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