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.