My bed and I

I have this relationship
                       with my  bed: love and hate
                       coincide. I can lie there dead,
                       pretending, that is, dead tired
                       dead to the world
                       or trying to be
                       for often I don't sleep. It carries me
                       into realms my  waking mind
                       keeps shut.  It blinds me
                       from  half of my thought.
                       It is worth a lot
                       my  bed.  I rest my head in its
                       white, giving, arms like feathers
                       I cover my  body with its covers
                       to keep out cold fingers
                       that nip up here, in this cold octagon
                       room  of stone.
                       And  in the day I sit on it,
                       back propped  up as if I were sick
                       and  commune  with
                       all the dead poets who live
                       through  my  eyes, who pick
                       up my   thoughts as if they were sticks
                       and  pile them this way and that
                       till the shapes fit, till the wood fires,
                       till the words rhyme and sense
                       chimes  like a tuning fork.
                       Yes  my  bed: worth a lot. I like it
                       for  it deals with my idiosyncrasy
                       as a good  friend would:
                       compliant, silent, and
                       always  a square space of peace to lend.
                       It lets me lie still, lets me unbend.

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