Night
Which particular wind curls through this dream of mountains
and books left opened? One that flicks pages or shreds
leaves while caressing your cheek? Or another, damp
and limp from envy, barely ruffling the night’s
curtain? In your sleep I am none of these,
relegated instead to unseen tremors or
the chill rasp of sparked surprise, a
tune laid across an unmade bed
in spring, its notes cluttering
the score. Or might I be the
stilled motion, eyes closed
and held taut, creased as
if worn by a pocket’s
rub and frequent
unfolding? This
is your clock.
Continue
the lie.
O at the Edges 
I enjoy the masterful way you work explicitly with form as well as content in this poem, Bob. It registers on both levels.
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Thank you, Cate. I believe it started out in couplets, but that didn’t seem to work. It took a while to get there, but the “winnowed” effect seemed to help build the tension. Lately most of my poetry has emerged in blocks. Hmm. I wonder what that signifies, if anything.
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When all the nimble questioning is said and done, I love those two fist pumps of prose at the end 🙂
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Thanks, Gary. It took me a while to figure out what the hell I was talking about. 🙂
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Hahaha. Well you covered it up well with those final two pumps of rhythmic bravado!
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The night is but a windfall
An upstanding pyramidof time….
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Mine might be more like an inverted pyramid. Ha!
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Yes.. in the sands of time..
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And slowly sinking…
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Haha.. we are all sinking… slowly.
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Yes!
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“The held taut in clutters of a caress.”
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That very well could be.
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Yep
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Beautifully done.
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Thanks, Leslie!
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Beautiful💛
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Thank you very much!
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This is quite beautiful. Wow.
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Thank you, Lucy. I’m pleased you found it so.
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Love the way the words flow so nicely and images pop us, then feelings, then questions…..
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Thanks, Dan. If memory serves me right, this one took a little time. But it finally got there!
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