52/365 - 60/365

Stumbling through the house
in the middle of the night
treading carefully
not wanting to wake baby—
yet all doors howl like a dog.

A metaphor hides
openly in tonight's storm.
You stand whispering
in the middle of the house
watching the dark with your son.

A poem of absence:
in the distance, no train shows.
Only a flat line
of the horizon spinning
forward into the landscape.

Twelve books remain closed,
as the outside settles, close—
and leans at the house.
Every light, in every room,
confirms the open silence.

For a brief moment,
standing outside in pitch heat,
you feel the earth shift
forward on its axis as
your father waters his plants.

The moan of a truck
passes as we lie in bed—
a shifting of mood—
slow whine of machinery
fades into the warm distance—

Slacked mouthed, a single
bloom opens out in the night—
an exclamation,
or point of witness watching
from the shadows of the room.

The back garden wall
dreams of being covered in
a heavy ivy—
to be consumed completely,
to become hidden ruins.

A poem of presence:
in my dreams you still enter—
an unwanted ghost
of the past. Firm. Persistent.
Waiting to be acknowledged.


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