Mercedes Lawry





The little sounds,

jagged click,

soft hum.

Spaces between

like a pencil lifting

from the paper,

then down, scratch,

scratch, pause.

Strain to hear breath

in and out

or held, a tide

of silence. Night

fallen and solitude

closing in, transformed

to steps and sighs,

leaning at a door.

The mirror glints

like the sterile eye of a bird.

A presence, palpable,

chills the skin.

The hours slow

and clotting,

empty, while something

at the window

fails to disappear.

Copyright 2003 Mercedes Lawry.  All Rights Reserved.

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