Window
by Rose Lucas •
See,
how this slow tide
tugs
and sighs against
the flank of patient night –
the driving pulse that
aches towards the
fleck
of dawn then
shifts,
and curls around skin’s soft
warmth, that quiet space –
See how all
things might be
refracted
here
in this small round,
in this brief
threading
of a needle’s eye,
how all the waiting world
might be
quilted
and unravelled here.
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