February 12, 2018


A bed needs making.
Muteness awaits words in flat
winter morning light.

Winter morning light
falls between ticks of a clock,
caught breaths before words.

Caught breaths before words
rumple winter morning light.
A bed needs making.


Scratched my back and wrote
a poem and made the bed.
The clock stopped ticking.

The clock stopped ticking.
The light abides, muteness too,
a word here and there.

A word here and there,
everywhere, ticks so soft, lost
in the tune between.