Sheet

Thread-count way up in the thousands,
Tucked in, turned down,
Pulled and penny ready.
Flicked by hand and struck by coins,
By turns,
And not a single crease.

LA, midday sun-lit white;
Oeuvre of Egypt’s looms gone west,
Covering a place of rest.

Absent all translative line,
The many folds of form
Assumed of corporeal curve,
And witness there to toxins passed,
- As litmus bore to acid sweat -
Scent and stain, those stigmata
Which pores in multitude beget.

Intimate in intimation;
Taut in eulogy to form:
Such cover of a place of rest
As covered my departed.