Tonight, as I read in bed
of The dynamic between falling
and being caught
— a kind

of ecstasy— the eye
shutters toward the window,
toward the old church steeple

with its peeling paint
and broken cornices, scudding
clouds still visible against

a rapidly darkening sky—
And then the tremor
in the foot,

along the leg, foretelling
how the body drops into
the well of sleep.


In response to small stone (230).

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