The right-angled triangles of sheet corners,
serviette-smooth, clean and white,
invite us in at the end of messy days
to slide into the envelope, send ourselves
into the post-script of dreams
When you leave me in the morning to
make companionable tea, the sheets are
crumpled, soft-edged; and this is the place
where I sometimes roll to feel your
warmth and smell your special smell
My mother shook and plumped pillows
into regular, remembered rectangles
with neat, hospital precision; clinical
memories of sickness, a hot head and the
comfort of a pillow flipped to the cool side
Squares; the square shape of our king-size
bed; your side and mine invisibly
divided, with square duvet, square
bed-side drawers concealing untidy jumbles
of tissues and other misshapen things.
More practical than particularly poetic.
And cat, sprawled on the corner of the
diamond-patterned bedspread
No geometry at all.