to tie a knot tightly around her neck, her white skin quiet like the fear of her sleep. (She gasped like wind shaking barley in an Irish field, the Sun caressing at last her tired feet).
The bed leaves wrinkled lines white the human border of dead people over the pavement of cotton, soft, cold yet warm, empty vessel, shell. The bed remains a crime scene I can still trace your smell. Here you lied, heavy with sleep. The bed's tattoo is your shape.
A hay(na)ku chapbook.