Prone

Been messing with this idea of a poem about a bed, thanks to a piece I heard on the radio by Rachel Whitehead the artist, talking about how much we have in common with beds.

This is a draft, but I like the way it's shaping up

Prone

Hard slats over
soft tissue.
Two dream-soaked
forms, mould
and moulded.

Nightly stage,
daylight crutch.
The sheer
summer pleasure
of silky legs
between breezy,
milky sheets.

Bolt hole for
odd socks and
scared muts.
Keeper of
unconscious slivers,
buried hurts,
and secrets nursed.
No side,
and silent
till the end.