Address to the beds Poem by Ann Cotten

Beds, lend me your ears! I did consider writing this in verse. For a while it seeded a good idea to me. Which disintegrated, of course (my opinion). So please forgive my untrimmed lines in which I subject myself to you. There is hardly anything inside: One for the birds, one for the other birds, one for death and one that might survive. Forgive! Too spicy jokes change the mulch I wanted to cover you with, it borders on the uncomfortable, a kind of scratching or scraping that may be felt sometimes when a spade grazes a stone, but I want to have of it deeper. You are bound to know this more than I do. I hope to unsettle your very pith, though I should step into a shaft that opens below me and sprain something - if I am lucky. You see, I mean it and will leave no one unbothered. On the contrary, here is a promise, I will spread such sheets over you that the condensation of all considerations, the brooding of a whole spring break over you every time the breeze moves the promised shelter, light as the promise itself, as waves of an ocean in a theatre. Do you want that to happen? I will ask you later, when my test is run, if you wanted it, because I realize that I cannot get a clear answer as long as the state is temporary, merely an order, and I trust in your kind information, when, after all this is done, I will have the honor to sojourn among you.