Wes Magee
Open Window
Night air billows the curtains
but, asleep, we are aware
only of the night’s silence
as it spills around our forms,
chilling the bare walls, for when
it comes the silence is cold
It carries the faintest scent
of mourning and is not trapped
within limits we understand
but moves without movement. And
as we turn in shallow sleep,
clinging through empty hours to
the edge of dreams, the silence
comes to place its damp presence
on uncomprehending lips.
Page(s) 36
magazine list
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- Lamport Court
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- Paper, The
- Pen Pusher Magazine
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- Poetry Salzburg Review
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- Rialto, The
- Second Aeon
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- Staple
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- Thumbscrew
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