Friday, January 17, 2014


I stand guard over your fitful sleep. Heat rises, mixes
with your sweat while I watch your fever rage.
It’s almost midnight. Planets blink, offer neither clue
nor compassion. The hour’s breaking shivers with sound,
draws me to the window below the shingled wings
of the sloping roof where a bird tunes its throat,
swells a single pitch from the quavering source.
Shapes from a far branch answer, the motif embellished
as if caught in a lie.Notes loosed into an imitation of flight
remind me of all that must not happen in the dark:
a pulse quick with dotted rhythms counting out time,
a soul slipping away, all vigilance forsaken.

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