Sunday, October 30, 2011

Slow Ghost at Daybreak

The room moves
From almost lightless
Almost silent

To a distant,
Mourning-dove grey,

An unnoticeable light
That spreads into the bed,
The empty corners,

The soft snoring
Of mother and daughter
Wedged together

At the edge of something
That never is without,
Turning around within

Itself. Neither anything
Still, nor nothing not
Still, the room moves.

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