I. In autumn, I wondered

if something like a box could hold
something immune to being cornered:
like second thoughts, moth flight, or
a handful of cloud. Perhaps a wooden
box with slatted shutters, so the feeling
could still breathe through—yet
hold the bones of the thing inside.

II. In winter, we drifted

into a sleep so profound it left
a smudge of darkness on the sky.
Sleep leaked over the rooftops like
so much smoke, hanging in the
profound quiet of evening until
it grew blue and bone-cold. One star
left enough light to see the scar.

 

 

*

From Magma 95, Architecture

 

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