It’s a hunger.
It’s a raft in a flood.
It’s a pitiful wound.
The tide in a lonely bay,
insanity of a saint,
the echo of silence,
sleepless weeping,
call of the nightjar,
triangulated moonbeam,
shared time,
when summer performs cartwheels.
It’s a song on a loop,
merry-go-round of the heart,
plaintiff squeak of a mouse.
It’s waiting for a letter,
the sound of your own name,
transfiguration of another’s,
the grumble of a pet.
It’s a mating call,
howl of the night wolf,
dove on a windowsill
waiting for bread,
help of a teacher for an idiot,
note left out on a table -
“Your dinner is in the oven.”
--
Stephen Moran
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