Wednesday, April 8, 2020

Tower of Meaning

A reflection, an echo
or maybe just a shadow
A house with no basement
A newspaper hat on the coat rack

Bells rusted in my mouth,
a moth fluttered beneath my tongue.
I curled my fingers around your toes
as you slumbered in the tub.

Webs of cracks covered our skins
like crazed fishnets.
Silver sparks arced and twisted
from the curtain to the faucet. 

We had furniture of cigar boxes
upholstered with mats of our own fur.
Ants crawled in a line into your pocket
to feast on the sugar.

And all that is left are snippets,
and fragments, and never completed projects.
Sentences never finished,
unwhispered secrets.

I want to once again become immersed
in those droning waves, to replay
that soporific drifting of the days,
the heart's loop of murmur  

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