What a strange sharp smell, alkaline mulch
of wood fiber or hemp or cotton or silk.
What words do you contain when ink scratches and stains
your smooth surface.
Bleached for brightness
or natural for softness

I dream of sleeping in a bed with stiff blue lines,
white paper sheets and sonnets written in a loving long hand,
like a pillow book written on the body,
no one else to prevent me from pulling up the cotton blankets
shot through with threads of silk as if they once fed blood to its limbs,
pall pale wrappings
for a sturdy frame.