Tumble-dry mornings under
sun-stained windows,
I wonder how long has this bed
since last it was aired out
The walls may have more than
salmon in their thoughts that even
with a fresh coat of paint, they still
bear the fleshy shade of raw pink
There are dust waiting to be stirred
in fleeing gossips, waiting to reveal
more finger prints and shade over
toys with glazed stares
I wonder, the springs hidden underneath
do they tire from pushing flesh in silence
they brush with sleep but not with dreams
and taste the leaking salt of sex and sadness
The salmons jump upstream to mate, I guess
but dolls remain frozen with one eye shut.
