Moving House
Afraid. Blank walls. New life. Shared space should I wake him or watch him sleep and murmur under my breath, like a bead of Hail Mary, Margaret Atwood’s poem, the one where the narrator yearns with simile to be like sleep, as unnoticed and as necessary. I paraphrase to avoid the copyright of dreams, to buy and pay for words, which once spoken or thought are used and shall not take again the same configuration, nor the same sense. But oh, how the free verse flutters in the lines, even when they’re wrong, like shallow breath and the purrlike rumble of gentle snoring.