by Lyn Lifshin
Old men’s dreams
in the bedroom.
Women who
held them once
in that cradle,
their hips
rocking all
night, shadows
sucking. The
walls press
on pillows
like hair,
empty cradles.
Downstairs
wet stone,
ash blowing
back into the
room as if there
was something
outside, trying
to come back,
trying to
be that
warm again
in the bedroom.
Women who
held them once
in that cradle,
their hips
rocking all
night, shadows
sucking. The
walls press
on pillows
like hair,
empty cradles.
Downstairs
wet stone,
ash blowing
back into the
room as if there
was something
outside, trying
to come back,
trying to
be that
warm again
*Lyn's website: http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm
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