In the morning
She picks up the mess.
The kicked, tangled sheets toppled over onto the floor
Contorted flung blanket squashed in that claustrophobic space
Between wooden bed and bricked wall.
It seems she is having nightmares
The kind you can’t remember
The kind that turn you into a twisting, turning wild beast,
A prey of something larger than yourself
Something that leaves no mark
But in the sweat on your brow.