Sleepwalking – Page 19

Untitled

The parched month is done.the want that was wrong,the nights one continuousnight spent betweenawake and less carefully awake,strung. The want that wasgiven, to slakeno concerns, nodrawn lines. One long nightimmune to the given that ismorning,pure,hung.

Absence

The same script each time you attempt to write it. Setting: morning, in bedand not having yet awakened, the sound of distress from the tragedyyour body has created and believes,with such conviction, making its way out of your throat. Never quite arriving, caughtby the mouth. Cheeks still dry. Something like a well, pushingthe one prolongedContinue reading “Absence”

Bulfinch’s The Age of Fable

The days have no numbers.Neither thread nor color —air too intimate, trespassingthe pores, tiring houseplants. The mother reads in her chair,mouthing half-broken words,the grandfather also in his chairwith a picture bookof divinities, all gold,resplendent goddesses. Television blaring,no hour lifted from the hands,but suddenly, you’re doing the same thingyou’ve been doing, excepteveryone has gone to bed.Continue reading “Bulfinch’s The Age of Fable”