Foot Of My Bed

She sat herself at the foot of my bed
Where my eyes could wane with distance 
And hit her chatoyant pools softer than
my rat packing gaze would hit otherwise
Even as she tried to balance a smile
on unsteady lips, her hands pursed away,
As if their opening would flood my home
And I would bloat with ancient waves
that travelled a thousand dreary miles
To break at my shores of sand and shell,
Break me into seas within small conches.

 

I parted a curtain and pointed through
At an old tree I would consult in rain,
Let a smile daub my face with melancholy
Even as she pretended to not witness
the calling of free songs in empty days,
Songs that visit shores of sand and shell,
And become polite smiles across beds,
Their storms hidden in closed hands.