bed of thorns
sinks deep
below the place your thoughts reach
you beg and you don't know what you're begging for
but I know

moonlit tables clothed in moss
tiny sparrows hopping
among the bread crusts you put out
yarn twists rhythmically
into all the blankets that kept me warm
but I can't keep you warm

Failure spits a hot odor
that's me in the bed of thorns
that's me with the key
on a ring where all the others are charred black
and only one is clean