Friday, November 28, 2008

night listening

this hour a sweep of the brush in ink
black, and the wind-tunnel of forced air rush
the sound, and all in their beds
and I awake as usual, just unconscious of my limbs
in a hard chair, drink in

not-silence, defined by warm walls here
and the cold outside, the distance north and south
maps of the lives, you in your bed too under
colorless sheets,unknown habits and positions, also silent
the symphony of sleepers' breath
fogs the imagined night air, behind the white noise
of the furnace running; yours too

hushed, halted, gasped or rattling the glass with basso
snores, if I could hear them all in wave-like rhythm
on my shores
if all that presence were a blanket wrapped around me
then perhaps I'd lose myself,
and find my part

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