1955 Rauschenberg Bed


Pull on a thread and the bed

unmakes itself.


Tug a stitch and initiate

an unquilting bee.


Last night your hair fell out

and scribbled all over the pillow,


mouse-gray head hairs

dangling white sheet threads,


each hair crossing out

fibers by fives.


You’ve left your stingray

mouth here too,


its bottom lip sticked

snapper red.


Down the covers slide mucus

blood and moonrays in a bedhead afterbirth,


past sheep white as sheets

against sky,


wagging their shirttails

behind them.


You’ve made your bed now

(hang it all) on the wall.


What a life we’ve slept here -- hair

blood and sun in the sheep-blinking earth,


thick and glorious

in your wet-paint dreams.