Author: Frank Watson

talking in her sleep as the path of night returns to the words we buried in the light resting for a moment on the hilltop she takes in the valley— the whole world in every breath of early spring waiting in the rain until the …

wind whips wild in the rain as we recline in the warmth beneath the windowpane in this land sleeping before the long escape beyond the shore in a corner we made a spot within the glade for a moment of pleasure within the shade still …

around, about we reach the place through other means

pulled by the dark forces of the midnight howls that linger in the air

thousands of trees dead, dissolved, reborn as the bluebird wanders in from eternity lingering in the garden where days become years and the wild weeds grow over her stone-still feet as light draws slowly the lands below I breathe in the morning mist holding the …

past and present inside and out we live in the thin film that divides it all this moment of silence between her lips and mine I cannot see the rhythm of the sound as the woodpeckers tap tap tap smooth in their wood-time tunes silent …

tulips line the roads as we travel far for somewhere safe where we may stay on the edge between the rain she floats with the drops to a land she cannot see opium labyrinths lost in the caverns before the light runs out blood lake— …

waves that carry the curdling song of blood-washed shores along the syllables they’ve left behind a call hangs in the air broken free from prison windows until, unanswered, becomes the wandering wind the rope that binds us here in beauty glimpsed but never free faded …