They had come before us, in our heads of hair,
Our flat backs with or without bony vertebrae
Dust they are and our future dust they embrace
Under flowers of our pillows, in sleep-softness
When we turn at night they turn in dusty ways
At us, in our bloodstream, in the fever of nights
Our inside fights, not knowing enemy within.
Let us get them inside out, in bedroom antics,
Carry on relentless pillow-fight, on way to dust.