When the down turns downy snow in white fluffs,
drifts climb to blanket his check comforter gripped-
winter time to buffet over seasick wrinkles that, cold,
wheeze the red black blocks back to spring despair.
Over the quaver mirage a narrow turquoise tile lifts
and, under the cross-eyed wisps of grey and black,
a bit of childhood drilling is revealed, just one inch.
What did he hid beneath the curly sawdust?
An evergreen seedling so heavy in hot wetting fever
drives a terror hand dropped from his down pillow,
dank in one last swollen supplication, too late gold.
I wonder what they'll do with his clothes.