Occipital Window (2-16-04)

place my
hand over newborn
skin, a
quiver under the
palm. Stirring in your
slumber, a
ripple through tranquil
dreams.
eyes flutter under
lids,
lashes flicker as a dying
light during the
thunderstorm. Breathing raspy, shallow
gasps. The world has wearied the
footsteps;
life has clouded the
eyes, following senseless
fingertips blindly,
scent now neutralized. Solitaire
sounds are an
echo of this
heart's jagged, slowing
pulse. Imaginary
storms smooth
wrinkles of
memories, so only this
moment, only this
moment... only
this remains.