Sitting in Michael's Lap
pressing impatience against
a regard dark and ancient
peers, studying insignificance.
The lamp spreads feeble fingers
against the pane, a surrender
to the beast beyond.
Outside, a rose
trembles on the stalk,
resting her head on the window
in repose, or defeat;
delicate yellow melts to cream-and-shadow,
pleading silently with darkness.
So grave a quiet is
a critical burden, and yet
I shiver when winds move,
bellowing in their borrowed voices --
Noises stolen from crevices,
the sigh-and-whistle of eaves,
perhaps, or the secrets of grass –
of this space shaken from dreams.