The Sight of Closed Eyes
A sip of clear liquid had already blurred
the edges of what could be seen
and sleep wasn’t rest, but in between
the struggle and where it stops.
Your pupils wide, perhaps you heard
the waiting silence enter the bedroom,
drive the birds from cold rooftops,
leave the house deaf with its volume.
What you saw then, we see only by what has gone.
The cloth whose colours have been taken by the sun.
Page(s) 17
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