I listen each night in bed
for whispers; whispers of a home
absent of the closed-eyed headache
of my own. My wife is good
at curtaining the shadows of
our world our worries our wisdomless
spending of our waif-like souls.
My children smile so sweetly, and
laugh so greatly when I implode.
They all make my sad world explode
with a circling sense of slightly sober
tinkering. It is not fair, the whispers
knocking at my rain-rusted door.
I ache still surrounded by such playful
drippings of concern. It is not known why
we stare outside our warm busy home,
drawn toward the whispers rapping at
our window over cold November snow.
It seems there is a land of effervescent
slowness. A land where snow and rain and
wind consort to perform a languid trio of
imperishable desire for this irreconcilable
earth. A land where laughter and forgetting
teach us how to remember each slumberous
mediocre inch-by-inch silly day.
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