Buried under strata of sheets
smelling the familiar faint scent of amiable sweat
as he stares
from his secret cave of covers
across the bluesmooth lake
(that waterfalls over the edge)
as a fish might
from its left side
(its left eye vacant)
lying complacent
on a wet rock
glistening in the numbing warmth
of the watery white light
streaming throught the window
from the sun, just high enough so
in the early afternoon
to not be yellow,
with the soft forceful thumping
in his left ear
in his left wrist
which has tunneled and dug
itself into a vein of cool linen,
he wonders:
will he ever get up again.
One...
Two...
Three!
