
Transient
It’s nights
like this when Earth’s
dark and serene,
I sink into its inky
swell of anonymity.
Along with the woodworm beetles
boring holes in my antique
rocking chair.
Along with a cluster of tiny spiders
poised, hunting flies around
the bathroom light.
As the majestic mundane
becomes disregarded,
time’s
swift tide
rolls over us
in a subtle way.
Night after night,
another poem,
another sawdust heap,
another fly entangled.
Night after night,
another air pocket picked
from our precious lives.
It’s nights
like this when Earth’s
dark and serene,
I catch my breath
while my head still
smiles above water.
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