The bed is still alive, dreaming.
It carries its fish nest near the heart.
It observes the passage of men, their rough-cut hands,
their temples of brief centuries.
It abbreviates our breath.
It counts the numbers to our thoughts.
The bed is still the mind,
it laminates the fire.
It is the concussion of each breath
which winds its mouth with wire.
With wire, this cannot be said,
my love is blue,
softer than the phone that rings,
softer than the hand that clings it.
The bed is still whiter
than the sun that burns it.
With its white ropes it is an imbecile dawn,
quiet with its foot,
with its small steps no one hears.
Elias Siqueiros was born in El Paso, TX, but has spent the last several years living in Brooklyn NY. He is currently in Austin, TX enjoying cheap rent and putting the finishing touches on two books of poetry. He published a book, "Sap of the moon-planet," in 1996 on Severed Head Press and has had current work published in Milk, Moria, and No Exit.