Poetry

just before rest

Trembling,

I’m trembling before sleep,
Here in this darkness,
Aware of my world,
Caught in perception,
Sober and fading, dreaming
Already, dreaming too soon,
Pulling the direction of my
Subconscious toward something like
Contentment.
The sounds in this room–the
White noise, the careful expansion
Of wood, the memories I can almost
Hear: place me here and I can
Recite all that I’ve lost but never
Find the root of any of this, other than: Her skin,
Her smile,
The way a rose fades in the reflection
Of her eyes.
She cannot hear me, but I can
Hear her–the night is going deaf.
Kevin Crispin
What do you think is up to my right in the picture? A cob web? Probably a cob web. Or maybe it's my Beatles records on top of my air conditioner. It's certainly not fresh, new wainscoting.

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