Stay, asleep on my knee, stay,
your small sounds creaking
in the wood of the room,
your hair's pulse warming
the cold white light. Stay
in the grey trembling,
while shadows chase
the brown day, an oily sun stains
the smooth stare of a wall.
Clock faces wane, dull moons hammer
their one hallowed word, stay,
haunting half opened hours that slip
stay, shivering with light
from the face of a cloud.
Slip...
In the quiet,
your sighs return to me
like rain from a vanished cloud.
The days of many flames darken
the skin beneath my eyes.
The wind shakes the world,
the bitter bitter leaves
and the wood of the room creaks -
stay.
words © 2000 Brock Bowman
image © 2000 Jon Reischl