The doors open and the heat undoes itself, everyone undoes himself, everyone walks naked.
Two of them walk on the table.
They are not afraid of God's displeasure.
They will have no truck with the angel who hoots from the fog horn and throws the ocean into the rocks outside.
One of them covers the bedstead.
One of them winds round the bedpost and both of them beat on the floor.
My little cot listens in all night long —
even with the ocean turned up high, even with every door boarded up, they are allowed the lifting of the object, the placing themselves upon the swing.
Inside my prison of pine and bedspring, over my window sill, under my knob, it is plain that they are at the royal strapping.
Have mercy, little pillow, stay mute and uncaring, hear not one word of disaster!
Stay close, little sour feather, little fellow full of salt
My loves are oiling their bones and then delivering them with unspeakable sounds that carry them this way and that while summer is hurrying its way in and out, over and over, in their room.
Was this article helpful?