Dot Org

At this stage of my life,

there is always that mountain of clothes—

shifting between my chair and bed,

a quiet migration I refuse to settle.

I don’t want to feel them

wrapped around the trembling edges

of my nerves,

but their touch reminds me

of something softer—

maybe dust, maybe something else.

It speaks of tiredness.

I need to sleep.

Or live outside life.

Or sleep again.

There are words the teeth won’t let

the mouth utter,

tongues folded into silence.

Outside the cage of language

lies another cage.

The wings refuse to touch—

the sky,

each other.

The nests are made of daffodils,

and summer will come

with a new home.

Here, there is no death.

After living

is living.