The bed has turned into a morgue,
a blue drawer of icecubes with no
passion looking up from in them,
all the passion is in a molding file-folder now

with a sick expression, like a shark about
to barf manila folders.
The drawer of hammerhead manila folders,
the icecube of barely blue dreams,

rest on a paper sheet that
sprouts red filaments.
Something is burrowing up from under this
Pause, the very hair of which conducts bright blood