Monday, October 11, 2010
Orion at 3.40
But tonight sleep would not come, though Orion slept above. Resting on his left, the celestial archer framed by the thin panels of the upper sash. The glass slumped by age differently in each, creating a quintych - would that be a word? - with a strong sense of doubt about the nature of heaven.
Glass, like pain, is unstable. A super-cooled liquid which always flows. Gentle, despite its fragility.
The pain which haunts my nights shifts in form as well, though direction is less defined.
The woman beside me breathes in soft swells. The beagle snores. The cat watches the great hunter from the window ledge. His tail slicing through the thick of the dark.
(c) 2010 by Ira David Socol