Nature moulds its own spine and we bend ours to
Fit every lump and bump on the hill we harbour.
The darkness force us to grope the floor like blind men
And read the Braille nestled against our backs.
This bedtime story gets under our skin like a
Popped shoulder and keeps us awake instead.
We press against it, heavy as eyelids, each breath
Nudging into our ribs, twist and squirm like a cocoon
Finding the best way to slumber. Tomorrow,
Bleary-eyed, we will wake to a new world in an ancient
Aching body, bruised all over like sleep wrinkles
From a good nap, stiff like corpse fresh out
Of a coffin,
Dented softly like a memory foam pillow.
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