The mockingbird’s song
clinks and slides against the glass,
by retreat
into each cloistered night.
Peace lurks like a ghost
in shrouded
corners of light.

Tears shatter like delicate shells
left behind
by strange, liquid creatures
now gone to ground.
Mornings will come
in scattered wisps of light,
fitful gatherings
of scrap.

No hands
will take flesh from the darkness,
shyly uniting fingers
in one graceful
No dreams will serve to merge
these wakings,
these shards expelled at dawn,

18 thoughts on “Wakings

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