We still hear water fall, round, after dreaming

When every sound is mere mechanic,
when every bird is musicbox —
muscular with plucked brass tines…

When a wooden dog
lifts a smoke to my fingers,
loaded,
pre-sentry,

then,
the fridge becomes winter,
and the fog rolls rotary from a
bottom mount freezer —
becomes haze and low beam.

Then, then,
in the scuffle
of slippers

in the brush on a tooth — startled
and vague,
small and nuisance,
some
green
thought
presumes
to presage
a noose,
some grim thought
caught
in the black eye
of a boy too young to know patience,
and falls
in the dust stroked
light
of a late afternoon,
in the
long stemmed bloom
of silence.

Image: Mike Lewis HeadSmart Media on Unsplash

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