Where Now?

Unbent and uncowed

and feathered to darker richness, you lie quivered in sleep,

the sleep of angels dreaming of fat-handed bullies, their

silver shore receding,

pleading. You snap the grips.

The tremolo of the hurtling car whistles your ear

as the winding core tightens — you bluing

for want of oxygen and moisture.

Where now?

I have no home save this clothing and the

witness to collapse, her beckoning eyes

beneath cowls. I am mortgaged of breath —

I have no breath

but for scant slivers of unfiltered quiet,

the breaks between voices,

a silent fissure in the floorboards

under the home —

and yes, anybody can scream but the ghosts

pardon nothing with their blanknesses —

lodged in small spaces between window panes, under eaves

and thicknesses of unwelcome, they leave me no choice,

I leave with no choice,

hands flickering like candles. I give up

and blow out this very instant

and start, once again, pulling and signifying.

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About David

Prone to musing and to being prone. Father to two, writer, engineer.
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