Give Me Sheet, 2008

his is a group of things.
Where it goes? No ones saying.

All is evident is a
spiral twisting with code

that is both you & I.
Simply that.

This is a pile of things.
Laying on the wooden floor,

which creaks and clicks
as you saunter, this way & that.

I sleep. Hyper-aware of the sheets
moving around my skin. Like that

one of, “your (my) stories.” Just one.
The sheets were moving in the breeze.

Dry. Naked. I moved through them: softly.
Exactly as I turned on a pillow that was bigger

than you or I. It has to do with them. Not us.
Just give it back to him, again. Set me free.

“Give me more sheet,” he would tell me. Over
the wind. In the dead day. Silence & heat. Once

they travelled to my home and went sailing. I was
on a different cord. They had a good day, she had told me.

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© 2010 by Felice Tebbe. All rights reserved.