Combing the Bed

by David Thornbrugh

mornings I comb the bed
removing dream debris:
horses with broken necks
statues burned to stubs
barns floating on flood waters
weeping gas station attendants
every day I comb the bed like a stable boy
inured to the smell of manure
indifferent to the terror of what I find
I pull out
wars atrocities rapes murders
and never file a police report or phone in a news bulletin
it’s crowded in our bed with
dancers fleeing spotlights like judgmental knitting needles
guns clatter airplanes tumble from the sky
animals exit the ark tracking Mesopotamian mud
every morning I comb our bed for dreams