Nocturne for My Pillow
When I fall, at last
drained of all my hopes for the day,
I drop my heart like ink
into a wicker basket beside the bed,
splattering oxygenated blood in long streaks.
When I crawl home, at last
stinking of half finished hopes
clinging to my hair like smoke,
I find my callouses cut by the whittling work,
dreams corked and stored,
the never finished always waiting
promise of tomorrow.