My bed swallows me when I am alone in it. Buried in multiple blankets and small
avalanche piles of throw pillows, red and
gold and gray, I wake tangled, lost, cradled in the absence of other days,
sensitive only to the books stacked at my feet,
the cats stretched, stretching, asleep. I take up less of the bed than they do,
the pages, essays, non-fiction, and novels,
the small bundles of sinew, bone, and warm black fur.