On Pinioned Wing
by Marceline Lasater

From oblique angles
one can't expect
much less defend
the truths
of our lives
attack
in dreaming . . .
piercing
again and again . . . .
Last night
he moved the bed
to the middle of the room
so no one
could hear.
Progress
from the many, many times
the old ones walked in
and observed.
The old ones, dead,
people my dreams
instead.
Dreams . . .
unfettered
weavings of threads
that show
why
a bed
that makes no noise
that won't hit the walls
that won't wake the ghosts.

~ by Marceline Lasater ~

©Marceline Lasater/RedBird Café.
Unauthorized reproduction prohibited by all applicable law.
All rights reserved.

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