Sunday, October 3, 2010

Bare Feet on Cold Tile

There are no compassionate breezes
that pass through the
inside of a warm room
in the midst of 
a sleepless
night.

Only feelings of ache
howl through hollow spaces
as I stare back at tossed
sheets
highlighted by a single, yellow light
stumbling through 
from the bathroom door.

Cracked porcelain tiles are
vibrating in my eyes
and I can't help but stare blankly at the
stale water sitting in the bottom of 
the bathtub-
leaving a little
stain
as it dries.

The figure
leaning on the edge of the bathroom counter,
looking back through a cloud of water-spots 
can't be me;
a phantom of insomnia-
a trick.


Imagery fit for a mindful doctor
float around the blurry thing-

allusions to events from the past week:


laughing children,
toys in a rain gutter,
a dead dog,
the seam of a women's torn stocking and
a pile of loose, blank paper
sitting on a desk by an open window-
fluttering in the wind.


failures

and fantasies


in a dark,
warm,
room.

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