The room is never dark
apart from the dark outside
we sleep
inside
the television's volume
tapered
hush, hush little baby
the light's blue on the ceiling
shifting into shapes of infomercials,
syndicated sitcoms, yesterday's news--
something about bombs.
I imagine what every creak of settling
could be to you
heard sharp and vague, at once
in the now and then
and I don't breathe, almost,
in the listening to your breath--
how it catches and settles
back into the pace of sleep
each time footsteps stop and go,
I touch your feet with mine and wait
again for sleep.

04/11/2006

Posted on 04/11/2006
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