Thursday, January 26, 2012


a clock ticks cracking ice
shadows & keyholes stamped on the walls.
i hobble a memorized route
along the corridor on a foot swollen—
puffed like punched-down dough on
the rise—inert, useless.

running mice in the frame of the house
are pulling threads out of my old socks
& reweaving them into cushy
nests, winding the colored strands in and out

of tissue tufts, hair, dog fur & dryer lint for their cold
hairless newborns hidden deep within the timbers
behind the piano. i wait for
no one, go nowhere & dark shapes
fall away as the sun squints
& i open my eyes & yawn.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

love the images of nest building

great poem about the ordinary