Put Me Back To Bed

I can sail into the dream-time,

paint pictures on sails of pirates

and let the wind blow through their teeth

like a dagger or a toothpick.
I'm cosy in bleeding gums.

The freedom of down and mutton
yanked round the throat by an alarm
sets me off down a watery trail
through my sheets.
I felt her their beside me.

Sherlock Holmes just finished up
by the time I got to the laundromat
and his clothes smelled like opium;
an elementary observation to say the least.
I sleep the most.