They think I’m asleep but I’m nestled on the landing above
looking down at the warm glow below, lulled by sound.

A party balloon on a ceiling – or
one of hot-air flying low, no higher than
backyard apple trees.

I am too young to care, despite the onset of years;
I dangle at bent-knee over railing to watch the sky fall.

The rush of blood to the head, the pulse in a thumb,
corpuscular beat – hearts and throbs and throes.

Cozied here with my favorite pillow, under nightlight inside
atop soft carpet ply, passing the moments of moontide
peering through the balustrade, listening intently.

Forgetting each morning the last night’s gleaning.

Chagall 2018

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