Saturday, 2 July 2011

Night Migration

Walking through the darkness,
a cotton ghost,
a blind-bird stick figure,
arms raised like the hopeful come for healing.
No light to guide you. No light at all.
The night is a softness that sucks in sound.
The night is a translucent cloth that allows in air
but not certainty. Not faith.
The carpet beneath your feet,
moth-furred beneath your shuffling toes.
The wall sudden. Hard against shoulder, hip, thigh.
The paper’s pattern turned to something cold.
The plaster unyielding behind thin skin,
the plaster all you feel, cold all the way down,
and the skin meaningless.
Your skin meaningless. The thud of your heart
and the slow, short intakes of breath
and the bones beneath your skin
all that you are.
Until you reach the ark of light.
Until you reach an island, and fall,
safe in my sleeping arms.

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