WEBVTT

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Every year, I have a ritual.

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I throw out all the writing
I've written the year before.

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However, this thing
keeps cropping up.

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I say thing because I
hesitate to call it a poem,

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but nonetheless.

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"And when it was
time to take her,

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she lay motionless
beneath you and, thinking

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of her clean sheets,
asked if it would

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be possible to somehow stay
suspended far above her bed.

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And at the same time, careful
not to mess her canopy."

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That is the title.

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Yes, she and her sat in a
room with everything in order.

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As I recall lying there
afraid to mess her pillow,

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her body covered with
sachets and lotions,

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and I've just come in from the
road sweaty and hair tangled.

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Ashamed to take a bath, knowing
the ring I might have left

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would never be good enough.

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