I won’t get off

                                              she tells him

                                               until it’s wide open.


                                         He stands

                                    on the foot

                               of the bed.


    He pushes it so far

  he almost feels

 he’ll jump.


                 Air bowls

                   in like a child’s

                       drawing. The arrogant


                                                  sun flicks off

                                                      a bottomless

                                               night; birds


                               begin to kick

                          up their heads

                    voice overlaying


           voice, a cross

       -hatched sketch

    emerging in her dream



 by the dented

 grumble of his snores.


 Opposite the open space

     between her seclusion

  and the sky, she knows


  that they will enter.

 Recalling the pigeon

on the filing cabinet


that day when she opened

               the office door,

vindictiveness ringing


          its orange eye

she picture the flocks

         around the bed


       their wings;

         their beaks;

the triassic leather


                of their ankles and toes.

The more she reasons with herself,

                  the louder their voices


 and closer they puff.

      Pushing her head

up through the earth’s surface


   she finds she has driven

                           both feet

                     through the sheet.


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