Mike Snape – Sheets


The sheet falls in colourless
pallor, away from hands that
grasp but find nothing.

Jackknifed and twisted, caught
in the bed’s death grip it sways,
a parachute stuck fast

from which I, dangling,
struggle to fold into sense of shape.
The futility of the double bed

strikes me now, absurd
and cavernous like a whale’s
carcass, humpbacked and

sprawled on its side. The ego’s
cathedral in frail grandeur,
it tries to echo when I lie awake:

the mute implication
in the incomplete alter
that I must lie with my head

in my fists, listing
like a freighter with
unbalanced luggage

when I turn off the light.
The shroud falls:
I finish folding

step back and watch
wry imperfections,
creases known to me alone

It all means very little
to a head surfing the white
breakers of oblivion.


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