Night

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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.

 

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22 thoughts on “Night

    • 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.

      Liked by 1 person

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