tonight there is no room,
no bed for soft heads to converse,
with knobbly knees bent out
in soft chattering--

from cold? hardly.

dawn mimics a dove,
with her white limbs,
off-plummage,
driven to some point
that has faded to your crescent brow.

tomorrow the siege will pull
at your echoing streets,
splitting hair strings off end
until you find earthen creatures
tugging at the hem,

at the toilet,
swallowing their hollow drums,

counting a mistress' scarlet nails
and her emerald brooch.

tonight i am quiet
with a bed.