The Bedroom by Doug Draime

There is no point of

reflection here.

It wavers

at the angle the bed

used to be. Where

it was once was, at that

angle, I watched

the stars and moon.

Now the moon is where

the apple tree

was. The radio has

completely disappeared.

A Mexican vase is there

instead. The walls have

been painted a color

I don’t know: between

blue and

avocado. The shadows

don’t dance anymore, they

float, moaning bitterly

over the place

where you once slept

beside me. The twinkling

chandelier is gone, and I

can’t find the ceiling


Doug Draime’s most recent books include Los Angeles Terminal: Poems 1971-1980 (Covert Press) and Rock ‘n Roll Jizz (Propaganda Press). Forthcoming full-length collection from Interior Press, More Than The Alley in 2012. Awarded PEN grants in 1987, 1991 and 1992. Nominated for several Pushcart Prizes in last few years. He lives with his wife and family in the foothills of Oregon.

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