The simple warm bed with me
is where it always has been, still with me.
But there is no "with."
You are not here, with me.
There is a bed, and there is me.
What is is not all there is.
What is new is open before us,
if we dare to endeavor
each day
in the fearful enterprise
of opening ourselves to it.
Quell the rumors
and carry their sleeping bodies
slowly,
carefully,
far away,
and tuck them into another bed,
to sleep forever
and dream their poison dreams alone.
When your hands are emptied
and you have fluffed the last pillow and turned out the light,
go outside and breathe the air deeply,
down into your navel,
down into your toes.
Reach into the gray western sky,
and there you will find my warmth,
on the wings of a bird,
aloft,
singing,
no longer hiding,
simply waiting for you.
