Between liminal realities
With minor adjustments, he could be a corpse
propped upon the knees of a weeping woman.
As it is he’s curled against the couch’s arm,
beard flattened against chest,
left arm outflung, flexed fingers held open
by a browning apple core. Near empty,
a dark blue coffee mug rests on his right thigh,
cupped right hand appended. Pelvis lists west,
bent knees point east, ankles are lightly crossed.
Behind closed lids, eyes tremble as though in awe
of inner sight, jerking in nystagmus as though
close upon a seizure. No tragedy here,
he’s just unthinking about prayers and bodies,
somewhere ‘twixt the hours of dog and wolf.
Dusk-lit images merge into a twilight world.
Meanings appear and disappear
no starker than they are, familiar as old friends
within a casual reunion.
~ Wry Welwood,
late twentieth century,
re-edited May 2021.
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