The Temperate Valley
Lie on rock
Think of feathers
While this cave keeps me sheltered
I’ve slept like any man
Crawling through dreams
As bones curl
Round, like limp branches
On an empty willow.
And hair dampens in our quiet cellar
Or like an old rope, lost in trampled mud.
Pale skin, creased and folded,
Folding over.
Murmured withdrawals
As the face drips down,
Down, to where the fleas feed on inviting fingers.
But I’ve tossed and turned
And tussled with my thoughts
To wake screaming in unfamiliar rooms.
Dusk to dawn,
The smell of a burning nest,
Yet I lay still on a crushed pillow
Waiting for something and nothing
As the outside claws at the half open windows.
And the birds seem to sound like sirens.
Copyright © Aiden Asoll | Year Posted 2013
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