This globe is a mattress
on which we walk in sleep
a round rotating death lap,
on which we fuck and eat
but never awaken.

We are hibernating
until spasms nocturne
or a blood-stirring pain
alarm us into day
like war, noise or disease:
they pull the covers back.

If we were injected
with Sunlight Benzedrine
shadows would crawl inside,
Queen-Sized Earth would yawn farts,
the shock would kill our dreams,
most likely we'd get sick.

Yet awake we should be,
enlightened by squalor:
the goddess in curlers
bleeds on sheets this morning,
baptized by the roosters' shouts
when the fetus rouses.