Sleepwalking

It is a sudden revelation, a tinge like a blush
and there quivered and felt the world come closer

some pressure of rapture which split. The smoke
fades and assembles itself round an emptiness

about the heart of life, untidy. Star-gazing
with the rooks flaunting up, so before a battle begins

the horses paw the ground. It is with the heart
one loves; you are confusing it. The green

linoleum, a tap dripping; it is strange, still.
Watch at night the distant city lights, the lightships

and lighthouses, the curlews, the clink like distant
silver of the hammers, the tomatoes, hyacinths,

pinks and seedlings, groves, grottoes, artificial lakes
with swans. There is a god like a sleepwalker.

All's over; the sheet stretched over and the bed
narrow. The sounds come thin and chill and, you, left

blackberrying in the sun. But this question of love
for it comes back too often, but often.

Copyright © 2009 Frances Justine Post All rights reserved
from Quarterly West
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission