There were a number of archaeological objects in the sheets which would normally have bothered me. A press-on nail from the dry cleaners, a beetle that flew in through the kitchen window and burrowed into the neck of my shirt. Sometimes we were almost sleeping on the forest floor or in a midden. I normally would have tossed the mattress. But each time I plucked the offending artifact and flicked it into the darkness. I then rolled over into my mortal position and I put my arms back around you, preserving our remains to be brushed clean. And each time you were already before me in that sleep. In metallurgical dreams you slept, a sedentary sarcophagus from the nights long before we met here.