midnight
| there is no moon. the indian stalks me like a kitten. he pounces. he seizes. I walk barefoot on a cold wood floor. he slips between my ankles -- a curious shadow, questioning. I have no answers. I taste his wet nose and my breath is his. I exhale stale smoke, fermented apple. I want tea -- warmth in my mouth like life, like morning. the indian lights another cigarette. water boils; leaves steep and bloom. change disturbs sleep, he says. it wanders into the room on silent paws. this empty house a cricket calls slowly to morning revision/haibun |
