by Chris Ernest Nelson

Sheets of steel, sheets of glass,
sheets of churning ocean foam.
sheets of rolling prairie grass.

The story of the night remains
in stale sweat, vain tears, in
brazen drear accusing stains.

No lover lingers when it’s done,
a weak excuse, a cold reserve,
a request for return is shun.

At times the bed’s a place of peace
and other times a field of war.
No sleep until the struggles cease.

Restful sleep of measured breath,
fitful sleep of passion and despair,
and the everlasting sleep of death.