A dolmen or a standing stone
Made out of old-men flesh,
Subcutaneous hair
Makes a mistake on the way out

The follicle
Gets a cramp and becomes
Enlarged, and the skin’s smoothness
Is squeezed between new ridges like

Thumbprints emerging from
Points of tension, cramps, knots
In the sheets, where a dolmen
Or a standing stone waves prehistoric

These hairlike filaments invading standing rock
Are proof that life-forms evolve
In the tip of a pastel pencil
Colonize paper first and then change and spread out

The bed glares at itself,
A place in the bed that is angry judges
a place in the bed that is calm.
These judgments fill invisible pure white veins

with carbon filaments that sludge osmosis.
Visibility is a river of
pencil lead migrations
through previously empty and transparent sacs of calm;

it’s true love
of the bed for its sunrise
which emerges from a black eye,
a glare, outlined by outrage, like a beady jewel of blood.

Osmotic smudge.
A little pink glaze
where passions graze.
True love for the quite deep wound

from which anger herds the ruins.
Rains
heard embers
rune.