down the bed at dusk
my concrete hand is alone
pulling along disappearing light
light softened as a baby
a baby gently turning from the window
as into everyone
from the bed-words falls silence
a secret that will see the old
a sleeping time sliding back
(before beams of deafness
(before beams of deafness
this creased the continuum)
and it is an even silent without me
my spinning earth
my naked continent
my concrete hand
but what if instead
my blue-white vocabulary
leaks a smoke signal
as if through a father's need
to see the day darkened flattened
and the clouded seams stretch
like the moonlight to her
passing across her sleep
down a favorite world
rewinding the day to dusk
she is alone except for me
a baby gently turning from the window
as into everyone
I am asking of you
a favor:
let your light hit
the November and December holidays
differently this year
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