The day is splintered – sharp enough for argument.

Hands clench, fingers threaded. Though the curtains are closed, it’s clear the light is winter’s.

Matchsticks drop down floorboards – the gaps are wide, unfilled, asking for it.

Softened wax fills my ears – still the voices never cease.

There’s room behind me on the chair – I only need the very edge to sit on.

from The beating of wings (Hearing Eye 2006)