making #8: square

Inventory:
the pale sun
that the curtains
can’t quite block
and your neck
your face
pulled under the blanket
like a turtle;
the hospital corners
unkicked at the bottom
that we won’t bother
remaking
tonight
and my hair
curled around
snagged on the bedhead;
your day-old stubble
and my rough path
along your jaw.
Our drugged whispering.
Everything sinking within
this deep square bed
from head to foot.