Looking for Colors in Bed
The fact exfoliates and publishes itself,
beneath a blanket which is my mimetic
– I know it is inside there, the fundamental
as a process, chosen and folding ideas in half:
A smell of the street’s everything, pathetic,
and a same evening of love which is a call
that groans all night. Too many mild locks
on the darkness; I ran into a room, I saw
a red light indescribable. Treasures, dimensions,
weaving the custodian into a band of shocks
(the felt of being) and the last red ribbon of awe
like my gasp, where I soiled the sensations
because there are none, red, and I’ll spend
my privation to looking. In remaining, in parting
my time like the spaceless watch; blankets
that glimmer; and a dimness encasing an end
that is there on the street (where the color is starting),
and waits there – no traveler tremors, nor forgets
the bed that continues. No bed is a woman
that offers a motion nor suffers desire
in sleeping – for still are the mornings
and lost are the visions. And red is the omen.
The blanket is all that remains of the fire
but there was no fire, nor a fistful of warnings.