THE BED IS MY GRAVE

The bed is my grave.
About it see the nasturtiums
grow. Surrounded, when i
lie, am i: by the mocking glow
of tinted greens; the sallow
preens of budgies gone to the
bliss of blistered drink. And
on the bed always am i on the
brink, overlooking vistas of
such overwhelming despair that
sometimes i feel that for me
the angels can have no care.
Yes, the bed is my grave where
many gentian moons call summiting
summers to the alarm. Deep over
the abyss my blankets trade in harm;
while my prayers farm, my prayers farm.