Waking to absence
This bed, on which my eyes blink
That window, before which we filled the birthing tub
That door, closed now as it was then every morning
But now poorly concealing a room
empty forever
not of things but of life.
All these things have lost their purpose.
I begin every morning with death.
My son rose in need of me and
being loved in that way
the world was rich with feeling and depth.
Delicious.
Now
previously forgivable pettiness gives third degree burns
soft and precious spirit wealth is ancient basement must
the most deeply satisfying is at best reminiscent of comfort
and the morning is not dark enough
but flat and angular
sepia
rent and pathetically taped
one image of a time that was too happy
in the end
| posted by Unknown @ 1/25/2007 01:46:00 PM
