In the Small Hours
From ancient dreaming I woke up at two
I wandered waking into street-baked night
to hang between the walls of man
and mind
bound by aching
wrung by my own
muscles
hungry for breath
I sifted through the thousand cities
layered on the stone
and never found
my own
Echoes
From ancient dreaming I awoke at two
and wandered aching into street-baked night
to hang between the walls of man
and mind
uncertain in my very form
not knowing if I loomed among the towers
or tumbled with the wind through hollow streets
the earth inherited beneath my feet
wept away in sandy trickles to the sea
the only certainty remaining
in black unblinking planes
the walls
always
the walls
Anitra's Sampler