Blood raw red curtains and a courderoy sea
‘this bed is our country.’* Even when I inhabit it alone,
loyalty is to our songs and the tops of churches and trees
even the arc of the ugly big O on the east side of town,
even the dust and spider webs, even the dry clicking heat,
feet hanging off the bed and both of us sick,
your poor clammy head, the static in my chest.
All I might ever lay my life down for, salute to, is this:
love and rest and a window with trees.

*Vonnegut, Kurt. Mother Night.