Posted in Poetry

5:42 AM

A cool, empty dark,
Untouchable for the moment.
The mourning doves
Still, dreaming. A wind
Turning in its sleep.
Bleached light of a
Shoeless dawn slipping in.
Madness sealed away
In bone, cupped
Indifferently in the give
Of a cotton pillow.

This piece appears in the Broadkill Review.

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