the stillness of passing

nothing moved
not time
nor wintered geranium, dormant in the pot

I slept the dead. inside a stone white cupboard;
feet raised on cement block

door propped

and partly fallen



i slept





a note to him

who is important:

do you remember when you were the bone shaping my skin?








on a metal table
in a different year
cold flakes
floated


curdled in a bowl








but for heavy hands

lacing lug boots
everything was quiet

in those days

men were gods








before bone piled silent
she was a blue sweater

the art of a raised window

the song of linen










i slept the incantation

the loud bang
the shadow stalking my bed


and when a voice called my name
i slept it

too





















m