The Unmade Bed. Poem by Joy Katz
The Unmade Bed.
Side of steamship and white smoke, black parts beckoning.
As in jump, as in unquiet. Not wasted, save churning over itself.
A dream in the midst and a rolling pin.
Unmade beds are cantering.
Argument of the pillows: kumquat or inquest.
An unmade bed unrolls a room, but not really anywhere.
Why, says the room. The room cannot bear the bed.
And the bed is bothered. Its waves grow small.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/7/2024 7:10:49 AM # 1.0.0.1119
