Spring 1984 • Vol. VI No. 2 A Gathering of PoemsApril 1, 1984 |

Dark Water

Mattress slung over the windowsill to dry: fat white tongue lapping at the brightness. Why do some sleepers wake up feeling empty and others inexplicably full? Family of eight in a wooden hut no larger than a burial vault. If they'd all gone to bed at once, there wouldn't have been enough shelves. The door was locked. All night the wave that gnaws incessantly at the foot of the hill kept plowing itself under. Just how the dark water got in I don't know. What I was dreaming I don't remember. Washed white as snow. One by one the shy neighborhood urchins appear at the threshold, pleading with their eyes to be asked in.

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