bed

Outside my bed
there is a cold dead winter,
gravity kneading its knuckles
crunching down the vertebrae;
there is a world of war and worry
cancer and clear cuts
millions of internet bloggers
and telemarketers,
tellin' you they know what it's
all about (maybe they do)

outside of these covers
there is a deflating world
hissing out the last of the helium,
the streets are whited out
and in all angles
there is an ever expansive
sanctuary of suffering
my bed is
my guardian,
my forgetfullness