The Sun Not Yet Swallowed

The Sun Not Yet Swallowed

I am chained to my bed by the usual chains

A cup of cat’s breath, the beard of a maid

A terminal moraine.

These fix my feet; my wrists are restrained

By the massed anxiety of bears

And ceaseless the shuffling sound

Of parrotfish pacing the floor

My bed is a bitter nest



My bed has been made

With the skill and saliva

Of raptors

Of eagles and hawks and owls

And lesser but no less brutal birds

With nothing better to do.

Issue of the barren I am

The pride of eggless fowl



My pillows are all of the softest granite

Hewn from Canadian shield

My sheets undiluted cotton from only

The finest cottonmouth

And each liquid thread

In this thread count of thousands

A string of yellowish venom milked by

The Swissmost of milkmaids



This is the pitiless miracle

In which I lie nerveless

The bed of the woken body

Cradle of the conscious mind

Crater of civilization and

Container of who I am

Here with me is all that I have learned

This is the prison of morning