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Bed of nails
I sleep on my side.
She paces the room
Barefoot for five
Hours, then sits
Cross-legged on our
Carpet garnished with shards
Of shattered glass.

Warped mirror,
You hang on walls we loathe.
Twisted mirror,
On walls that hate us right back:
Why do you suppose it's so?
We banter with your sweet alarms
Incessant and low.  You speak in tones
Smooth, like gloss enamel.

Why do you suppose
Such a fusillade of bullets
Flies into our room
Day in, day out?
She gave such a shout,
My old lady
When one grazed my thigh;
It burned, and another
Pierced my side.

Always so many lives
Slip by -- lives I'd like
To keep as true
As the lies of those who live them.
Gold is the kindest of all hosts;
Once again it will be mine.
To be sure, gold stolen from
The generous man shall burn the thief alive.