Home

White sheets, cool,
smell of Innsbruck.
Pale duvet floats frozen.
Hospital corners.

Don't touch the spasms
spitfired in hell,
nor the stains rusting slow from the long occupation
reeking sweet and more sickly, in this pretty room
than the blood heads
fresh-peeled,
in the dead spanish market

See pillows, not featherstorms
beating and howling,
as the others writhe giggling for house seats
to see the show live,
with their knitting.