BROOKLYN COPELAND

HOW MANY IN THEIR DARING  

This bed belongs to a friend you've only known for a few hours.
It's soft and strange, and the impression into which you sink
is not of your own body. Maybe not of a body at all.
The question of sleep or sex never rises. You're here to make yourself
stick to do or die, to decide that blood is a constant thinning
and thickening and really has no bearing.
How many of those blue ravens in his yard are
mean spirited? You think all. You no longer trust sleekness.
You've never heard a raven lie, but one's never told you
a truth you could use. How many in their daring decide that blood
is a constant thinning and thickening and really has no bearing?
The question of water or wine never rises. You're here to make yourself
clarify. You can accomplish this
in a few hours, in a new bed.