Jay Dillemuth, p.3



3. The Ship's Boy's Bed of Moss

Do you remember our African
adventures, more impudent than
licorice plants?
                They meant something
to me, that raving frenchman's pages.

They made me juiced, drunk as a
packet of snoozes curled up
on a turf mat.

But those days seem very
far away from me now.

It's dark outside. My lover is asleep on my
mother's bed, as I wander a street
of dim instants and edges.