# A Song in Bed The pillow grows soft under my head— a cloud, perhaps, or the breast of some sleeping bird. Outside, the world turns its indifferent wheel. Inside, I am smaller than I've ever been, wrapped in sheets like a letter never meant to be opened. The dark is a room within a room. I sing to it, though no one listens— not even myself, really. Just the old song of the body at rest, the breath that goes in and comes out, the heart that keeps its own time. Sometimes I think the mattress remembers everyone who's ever lain here, all their small prayers and sighs. And I am one more weight, one more head upon the pillow, one more voice singing into the nothing. But here, in this narrow kingdom, I am king of something— even if it's only silence. Even if it's only this: the warmth of blankets, the mercy of closed eyes, the song that asks nothing and gives everything back.

 
people will pass, in the
morning, on the subway, as usual
and we will always be in bed we
will play dream with real air
and we also in bed we
will smell the ocean, we will get
two seafood in our own juices
if someone were to bottle us
and we would still be in bed,
the sun itself would stop for a second, a ray,
curious why the hell we didn't get out of bed
and we would be
playing in a real bed with a dream,
and we in bed will be falling four atomic bombs
and I in bed will be prostate sick,
you are going to have breast cancer
and we will be in bed all the time,
we will be healing, I--of the prostate,
you--of the breast cancer,
and also, in bed, we
will be coming to the children with the class
to look at us through the window...
we will become objects of study in schools
in faculties, at seminars and workshops...the TVs
will shoot to film us,
we will be sensational, exclusive,
live, earthquakes
and we will all be in bed
cold, still, bored, so fucked up
it will rain so that at the end of the world there
will be infiltration in the ceiling of the cabbage
and we will still be in bed.