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|  NOCTURNE

 
  A two-in-the-morning breeze
billows the white curtain.
The full moon plays
preludes on the clouds.

I suffer delusions,
a naked composer,
writing poems
in the kitchen dark.

A spider parachutes down,
legs out like a star. I catch
the web on my wrist
and give a soft fling
to the corner. Should I sleep,
should I go on?

The fridge whirrs, the wind chime
clangs out incidental music
over an orchestra of leaves:
no such thing as silence.
The moon improvises
a thick night blanket
over this body and pen.


from The Wind is a Tall Man Striding
watershedBooks
2000
Copyright © Jim Slominski