The day closes in layers —
palimpsest first
awaiting tomorrow’s script
inscribed by sandal and toe —
next water, rocking itself
in heavy-lidded blues,
slowing, nodding —
then birds, pulling cloud blanket
tucking in
a yawning world
dimming voices
on edge of dream —
atop, where wisps of day
linger like talcum
a so-distant moon
calls the stars.
Thanks yet again to photographer S.W. Berg.
Lingering
a reluctant sun
releases day
leaf by leaf
pensive
wondering
what night
is like.
The snore of a duck
is a delicate thing
muffled by
cozy blanket wing.
Contented they sleep
in their soft feather beds
as though it is nothing
to wear backwards heads.
Night light
haze and drift
shade and shadow
rise and shift
Stygian flow
through hollow space
hobgoblins of life
dance on my face.
Thanks yet again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
They call him Fat Freddie
I think it’s a shame
a little more dignity
should attach to a name.
But in model comportment
he rises above
curled into the naps
he gets plenty of.
Tucked into himself
his postures astound —
would I sleep better
if I made myself round?
Oddments 