This entry is part 9 of 47 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Summer 2012


The house grows silent, but windows
pulse, containing sound. Lights
flicker on, off: questions
without cease, day and night.

In the middle of a sentence,
the hum of an insect interrupts.
Every bright song is sewn
to its darker inversion.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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