hush by Erika Hommel

in the spot where he was

slept in his scent

 it’s just a he

                    not a name

 a bag of flesh

               freedom from loneliness

wool settled

                        over morning’s lead

hard to make available

reality and dreaming,

carved fresh moss creviced mountains,

orphaned restless glaciers,

lecturing louder envelopes more silence

looping stale breath

cotton ribs

   the brown,

            maroon

freckled oak

           golden leaves,

dying on my tongue

rocking thick buried air

            appears to be

merely a dream