Starfish
The bed, a profundity, probed by toes
Immeasurable in grades of softness
Since toe tips lack subtlety
Of form; texture.
I lie indistinct as the lurk of Ophelia’s father
In wait - a lady in waiting
Spread-eagled for my Othello
Tell Iago I lie in the arms of Morpheus
If it should hasten him to my bed
Where, displayed
By retreating surf, the duvet
Uncovers my five-pronged
Opulence.
