marymary posted a snippet earlier tonight with the line "left with me in the sheets." When I saw that, I thought, what a great poem seed...

[sets timer for a half-hour]
[opens a second window to hold the lines that don't work]

My bed is for cookbooks but not cookies: I
want to dream about crumbs that bloom into cakes

frosted with slurries of mistletoe, from which
silver pomegranates emerge and bounce

like gigantic peas across the disheveled straw
softening the floors of the castle in which

I'm hiding, seeking sanctuary from
the jaws of impatient turtles. I clutch

the cool uneven girth of a silver sphere
as if it were a teddy bear. It's pocked

and scratched like a battered bowling ball,
which makes me dream this is more than a dream

since it's bothering to be mundane instead
of glazing the globe with fantastic despair

but even as I rub my cheek against the grooves
and scars of a phantom fruit, I squeeze

my fist around the crust and sponge from which it sprang:
I want to be left with me in the sheets when I wake

enough heart's fire to bleed onto all I touch
a shining -- a story that's near an almost too much.


~ pld 7/4 1:31 a.m.

[timer ran out right before "my fist," but by then I knew where I was heading]