Bones of Day and Night

On the bedside table are the ashen bones of the day. Another evening gone, we shuffle from bedroom to bathroom and back again. The room detests these silent endings to our days and our slow monotony. Within drab carpets spring wheat fields, mounds of earth where once lain moth balls. These walls have yearned for more -- the sigh of insects moving across the ground and the rustle of wind-driven stalks. The smell of our skin, so sterile, has led this house to mutiny. Still, the dark brings us comfort with the soft sounds we make as we move together in the night.