Three AM and the house squeaks.
Pillows lump magically by themselves
on cue from some mystic, universal sigh.

Blankets alternate between scratch and shrink,
freeping,
driven by the wind swirls leaking from the window frame.

I have a choice.
The eyelid fireworks display,
or staring where the ceiling disappeared
when the lights went out.

I wonder what will fall on me from the void above…

Once a double-divot divan of dreams
and schemes of passion postured twistings,
the Bed
becomes a battlefield graveyard,
without the crosses,
but none the losses any less fatal.

The dark perpetuates whispered irritants of memory,
smells, and shadow people.
One, with arms folded, and shoulders colded,
rolled-over turned away night
after night after night-nights replays
toward the light of day.

I wonder what will call to me like a well fit glove…

A foot cramp would be a relief,
A moment occupied with other focus.
The silence now belies belief of warmth,
or glow, or slow measured breathing
from the worn trough of body form
that now lies empty.

I wonder what I’ll fall for. again, in the name of love.

04/08/2007

Posted on 04/09/2007
Copyright © 2025 Timothy Somers