Tonight in my nest of stones I have not slept.
Through the walls my neighbors fight over how
best to spend their time as it silently slips through
the space between their fingers.
As the last grains fall it seems reasonable to be
present for the hours left.
When the dawn climbs above the ocean I can see
that deep amber on the shore, the color of
my lover’s eyes when aroused, waning to hues
of gold that glint in my half empty glass.
In the unkempt night I rearrange decaying books
wander halls of memories pillaging my mind.
Trinette Reed photography
My frozen window looks out on the ivory banks, its panes bow rhythmically to winters harsh breath. I am sleeping less, roused by wing beats of a Boreal Owl huddled beneath a gray mound of Spanish moss, his clutch a tangle of talons piercing the branches bark. When I sleep fists of cold gusts erupt through the cracks of dried walls breaching my seclusion with dark recollections that vibrate my hemispheres into consciousness . Past the valley, over a hillside, evergreens fill with moonlight and I lie down on a star streaked forest floor beside a gray wolf who is the scent of golden wheat. He watches me through eyes of silver rivers and to our east the frozen sky is crimson.
Some nights swallow me.
My mind surges forward and lurches back.
There’s a needle impaled in a sad groove
of a suffering song where I fall into a
maze of broken lifelines.
I mend the fissures of torn wings and await
the mottled sun that rises like a feather,
praying to the god of birds to swoop
down and save me.
Beatrice Gonzales…Goddess of Birds
From my window a sliver of moon casts a haze over the water and I listen to the rush of soft waves. Those creatures beneath the depths, do they sleep, dream? If parted do they grieve? Down the street I can see lights from an all night store, a man stands behind the counter. Cautiously he slips his hand under his jacket and takes a long swig from a bottle. A group of young thugs gather outside the storefront. I imagine them harming the storekeeper. Distracted by the young whore taking shelter in a doorway, they laugh at her and whisper. Oblivious to her vulnerability she sleeps as though she has never heard of birds of prey that swoop down with unblinking eyes, hungry beaks, and talons poised for butchery. I watch closely in case I need to call out a warning but losing interest they disappear into the dark.
Maybe nothing is real, maybe everything I think, everything I see or hear is all in my head. I lose focus and the burn of you stings just below my surface. I want to sleep, forget the sound of your voice, your unforgiving eyes, not give a damn about you.