BEDDING

BEDDING
5/31/96

If it’s not on fire, it don’t need water
And that’s what makes me
That’s the most of what I am
I am drenched in being
Soaked from seeing
All that washes over me
I am bedded in this man
As I finger through the dirt that is my rooting
With the flora and occasion always suiting
And I hope the flowers blossom in hours
And all that moves me
Knowledge is dung to fertilize the land
Experience seeding
Choice is in weeding
And bedding is the hope inside this man
Today is the bird we have in hand

Her skin unfolded in front of me like morgue sheets as she reclined prone
As cold and inviting as a coroner’s table
I could not identify the body
So I ran