Reading poetry in bed does not silence the pain

Or ease the tense knobby knot that bulges at the nape of my neck

Reading poetry in bed is investing myself in the poet’s world

While my dog snores

And my ice, cold toes steep into warmth.

The blankets settle over my legs,

Eddy over the crest of my belly.

I feel gravity sieve me deeper into the mattress’s concave space

The pendulum slows

And I just live in cascading lines with blue words and a non-verbal, autistic man’s song yo the world.