Slicing sheets for sleeping better.  When they tangle I have nightmares. Machine for bad sleep-breathers hisses gaps in mask and hose. I pretend it's space travel. 

Writing desk trapped in the corner with a window to look beyond. These nooks are vital for my vitals. Nooks could make up my whole home.

I did not wash the dogs today. I meant to but a storm was coming. Desert storms with orange dust paint rollers over everything. When they come it feels like the world is an old film.

I'll wash the dogs tomorrow.

Last night, in tangled sheets, I dreamt you were dead and I panicked and ran from nook to nook with armfuls of everything I meant to tell you. Where now could I keep them? There was no more room in the memories of you.  Sight and smell and taste of you and your murmers of possession. No room for what could have been. 

The bedsheets are freshly laundered. The dogs will jump and sleep on it while I am away at work.

I'll wash the dogs tomorrow.