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Or silence

5 am. Between dreams, or attempts to dream,
and clarity, memory – outside
crows peer into an empty road. There is dark
or silence. I heft my foot, stiff and the skin purpled.
I touch my foot and feel nothing. Broken.
I have been waking this way for months. Later,
I wonder if the crows woke me then remember
the creak of pipes in the dark. The woman
beyond my walls died a week ago. We never spoke.
Though perhaps, once, maybe crossing one afternoon
between the church and cafe. She pulled on her small
dog’s lead and smiled. I thought nothing of it
when the barks stopped. Why would I?
When something so new vanishes we feel nothing.
It is the things that have been within our consciousness
longest which leave the greater chasms. The widest hollows.
The emptiest dark. Or silence.


About michaeleganpoetry

Liverpool based poet and editor. I have had four pamphlets of poetry published, most recently After Stikklestad (Knives, Forks and Spoons Press, 2010). Penned in the Margins published my first collection, Steak & Stations, in 2010.

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