The hotnight bed
with all its covers
off
and only the bottom
sheet
fitted
around a slab mattress
is like nothing so
much
as a platform
on
which to offer up our sacrifice
to the record temperatures
an altar
on which we
writhe about
whimpering in schlock horror
with all our moistures leaking
out and drying up
To be on and not in
is an anathema to bed protocol
with nothing to
protect you from the night
or the ceiling fan
which even through
your closed lids
is desiccating
In the morning
we stagger up haggard
spared it seems
we look at it
through eyes sapless and sandpapery
and the effort of remaking
seems both pointless
and beyond us
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