Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Four hours


When I fell backwards
in the vestibule of speech,
loud and starched like
an unuttered joke,

the air grew dim.

And as each breath
anesthetized
the night,

I tasted mouthfuls of
torpor.

I knew

a moment of scuffed
quiescence
would suffice

to drench my throat
with radiance;

to hurl me into the midst
of a chromatic whirl.

When I tapped into the
synthesis of resonance and heat,
I took your hand --
we rode the wave.

And the clock had just struck nine.


Copyright ©2009 Anna Piutti

Published in Muse Café Quarterly - July 15, 2009