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Transient by Steven Bruce



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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