When the sound of life is anything
before the music begins
before there is time to listen; when
a child coughs in the next room
I wake carefully, pressing an ear
to the last beat of a dream,
and find: you're not here now
and you’re not in the next room.
Carriages of wind move past my window
move disturbance above the pool of a tortoise
who periscopes to the surface,
expectant, in the least, for a gulp of air.
I swim and sweat somewhere beneath my bedroom ceiling
somewhere beneath the air I prefer to breath.
But your not here now
and you’re not in the next room.
When children sleep in the afternoon
when grey breezes whisper away the sun,
when an avalanche of crow-call murders the dove
perched on my sill, there is nothing and none to tell
and no circumstance worth repeating at a later time.
You’re not here now.
You’re not in the next room.
MChallis © 1998/2015
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 8:12 PM UTC
When the sound of life is anything
before the music begins
before there is time to listen; when
a child coughs in the next room
I wake carefully, pressing an ear
to the last beat of a dream,
and find: you're not here now
and you’re not in the next room.
Carriages of wind move past my window
move disturbance above the pool of a tortoise
who periscopes to the surface,
expectant, in the least, for a gulp of air.
I swim and sweat somewhere beneath my bedroom ceiling
somewhere beneath the air I prefer to breath.
But your not here now
and you’re not in the next room.
When children sleep in the afternoon
when grey breezes whisper away the sun,
when an avalanche of crow-call murders the dove
perched on my sill, there is nothing and none to tell
and no circumstance worth repeating at a later time.
You’re not here now.
You’re not in the next room.
MChallis © 1998/2015
#rework
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