My calves, ignorant of the danger they are in,
suffocate so slowly between the sheets that
it hardly feels like death, just
a series of monumental increments
where a sweat-drenched euthanasia
seems increasingly attractive.
Morning leaves only a scarlet scintilla
and a faint sense of must
I wake

Yes, deplorably: the sympathetic response
to my sodden rhetoric.
Not wanting to cause offense
to the benevolent creator
who gave me the gift of
firm lumbar support and
memory foam,
I resurrected
leaving nothing behind
but my body,
the imprint of my body,
and the umbilical dream
trailing in clandestine wake:
asleep