edges 217

by Pete Hausler

Published September 1st, 1998

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A gull flying through the slats of my bathroom window.
A gold cross on top of the church spire,
visible only when I sit here on the can,
for some reason, mornings are the only time
I choose to peak out through the blinds.
A dripping bathtub faucet, allegro.
My mouth is dry.
A feeling beyond melancholia,
on the darker edge of that,
at this first edge of day, not quite together.

The shadows on the wall of the house across the alley
are faint and segue into the bricks themselves,
disappear into the chinks in the mortar.
City-wide, the rats have called it a night,
head off to bed, as I try to pull myself
into a usable, human shape.