Angels never sleep alone.
I was lying on my back, suspended
On the complacent earth. It was cloudy.
I was noticing how the clouds, in drifting,
Looked awfully like familiar faces,
Turning, to leave.
The cold wind tasted sweet, like embryonic wine.
It whispered to me, something,
Then blew away, without explaning.
It was cold, like a fire that had run its course.
The cry of a bird sounded, like a sleeptalker
From across the twin bed.
A leaf, unattached, floated so just up.
It may have been beginning to rain.
I went inside, and relit last night’s fire with pages torn from a cracked calendar. I drank the remainder of the wine, and I crawled back to the twin bed, and I slept.
No comments:
Post a Comment