Waiting

Angel's Flight, Vol. 4.1 (1979)

Sharon Smith

there are souls who scream all
night in their rooms
holding covers up, blinking
at a dark space before them
empty, unblessed.
there are times that defy
the word stop.

the end moves from the 
center to the skin
a creeping constant
no event, no goal.
our skins dry
flaking dirt like the 
dark surface of a lemon tree.
dust becomes the clothing
and center of each
as the worms carve tunnels
in the wood, patterns to follow with
the tips of our fingers
smoothing, silencing
like a touch to the lip.

you hang by that fine thread
a slim black spider
wanting release
the slam toward dirt
is not always final.
there are recriminating
blasts, silences
where voices are needed.
the thread will last if you let it,
the dirt will stay soft.


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