Of Things Unspoken

Silence. Like the sound of a whale asleep
in a gray slant-lit cove. Or the soft inhale
of the north wind after a storm has passed.

Silence...
      my prison
            my cave
                  my haven
my coffin.

A neighbor bikes past my house.
Longings for my own cobwebbed bike
surge deep inside of me.

I imagine old lovers returning
to resurrect limp limbs with a whisper.
I dream of dead friends and relatives
gathering to sing hymns to the gods
of late awakenings.

At night I fly high over rows of rooftops
arched like a sea of tents.
My cobbled body stares back at me.

Eyes closed, my arms web into wings.
The wind rises.

Pris Campbell
(c)2005