April 19.5

comment 1

Silent hill, sparse dove, an elbowing
of swifts

this morning colder than all
the rest

How do you feel? We ask
with trepidation

How deep into the hill
this warren

must go, masked they must
think by

dawn and tumbleweed
no longer

prey to a pill-round moon
but I

hear it now faint as
bird wings

and wind caught
in sagebrush

the night is stalking
the day.

Something kept pulling me
from sleep

your open door
a change

enough for me
to search

the house certain of
the worst

only after exhausting
the stairs

I saw the usual topography of
your bed

with you there, also always
too warm

in sleep but I am certain as
an owl

knows its weight in flight
that you

and I are both predator
and prey

Whatever gets us will come
from within.


1 Comment

  1. Pingback: August 19 | OPTIONAL POETRY

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