ROOM
“Up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire”,
you used to say. And each night
I stayed with you I would consider
that velvet gradient and breath
would catch and falter. So steep
the climb away from firelight into
the half-dark shadowfields above.
Yellow bulbs that melted hollows
in the darkness, scent of lavender,
the bulk of a double bed like
a grounded barge, and the cold
that hung like the northern lights.
The cottage is gone now, gone
under roads that tie another world
together. Cars carry their interiors
through different nightscapes, short, bright
and uneventful. Lights bloom within them;
ambient heat like a birthright;
motion as imperative in a land
that would be still.
1:43:45 AM 
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