The head of an old bed frame, porcelain white,
Looked skeletal through the wavering window
At night. By day it just looked empty, no pillow
Visible to the compositor across the street,
Chin in hand, staring at it from his own window.
Heaven is murky. Heaven always was. Decades
Now since anyone had laid their head on that bed
And slept until that weird morning light by the lake
That doesn’t quite break dreams but lets them
Decay. The seething compositor sitting and setting
His type, adored that about museums, adored
That fact. Everything kept in them had to be kept
Away from former functions, from purposes.
Exhibits awaited, although not many of them
Haunted a window visible from the street like that
Headless head of an untenanted bed. Watching
It was almost like sleeping in its emptiness instead.
He looked down at his tray of letters, trying to decide
How to paint a ghost's absence with pieces of lead.
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