No matter how much I turn this bed the
earth continues to produce small gifts:
rusted spikes and finishing nails, bottle tops
and walnut halves. And when, impossibly,
the last stone is sifted and picked from the fine soil,
it draws from the neighbor’s yard a matchbox car,
a cat’s-eye shooter, the remnant of a sneaker lace
still threaded through a metal eyelet, as if
it is pulling forth from a quick and source-less
underground river of object permanence.
Like my own bed, often turned, yields baby
after baby, both born and yet unborn.
So many I must be mining other women’s
daydreams for their honey necked lovers
or surfacing small rag-dolls of poverty and
poor timing from the nightmares of the
young girl who lives down the street.