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title
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Karen Jones


 

Awakening

I lie in the blanket of a winter's night,
rest in moonless, starless black.
No sound but a chord of a distant train,
rising, descending. Song without words.

The dark is kind to my wounded eyes,
abraded by electric day, ruptures
of flaring light, our sun-world of edges
and hardness.

The dawn window pales, bathes my eyes
in awakening gray. Blurred shapes form
around me. Spirits of objects. Shades
of their daytime frames.

I rise from the arms of the dark,
pad in stockinged feet across dim space,
light a candle.