Once I left beds- rumpled with the print
of sleeping bodies, the aftermath of love-
untouched all day.
But now I never fail to make the bed.
A point of honour.
Duvet shaken, pillows set in order,
the undersheet, twitched straight and smoothed
flat as a blank page
ready to receive
my dream-self, the one who brushes past me
each morning when I wake, and when I sleep.