Not Daydreaming


This is a derma pale-red duvet
of a well-to-do bank-roller
whose bloodline pipes the stitching.
We may splash around in privileged lochs
where assurances of bed-languid sea changes mooch.
I’m not miles away
unseen in carminette batiste,
no headrest to vaporise
as dousings overhaul
continuous as blood.
A drained day latched onto
by a four poster bed.