Viral - The Recovery

You'll sleep it off
the inky octopus, reaches up with all
its arms or legs and pulls you down
you can't wake up, the clock shows
11, 12 - you're sleeping like sleeping's
an Olympic sport, the dribble on your pillow
medal shaped, you're sinking in
the bed a hammock of warm fudge
your book abandoned on the shore
nothing will alarm you
and the smell of burnt toast
from next door's extractor
makes you dream of fires, walking in them
unharmed, flames like the tongues of dogs.
Sleep is what you need, you're giving in
a coma or a fairytale with no-one waking you
no kisses, though you fancy
a bramble hedge has swarmed your wall
a thicket, protection and nobody will climb it
climb in, you're safe, bundled up
thorns tapping at the glass
a chrysalis while life goes on elsewhere.