Soon you will wake
in another bed
in another house
in another embrace
(pinned by an arm
or another old leg).
You are drowning in a dream
of the high mountains.
Your mother rises up in the smoke
from the charcoal fires.
Your mother materialises
in the mauve smoke.
Your mother smiles
and then
vaporises.
Soon you will wake
to that antiquated vernacular,
that poking and kneading,
(that preposterous dick)
and duck beneath the duvet
to consider
your best
option.