Maureen Donatelli

I didn´t think it possible clouds
could fly so low and this still be earth
dragging themselves through these naked trees
that don´t float away, remain anchored to sodden dirt
and slippery eel leaves, elevated creatures with ebony arms
reaching into deep white mercy, a cold, primal space.

I listen for some sound, am
given my own hollow breath, submerged.

So this is it, that place of almost
in dreams, that place you never reach
for waking, the sudden jolt when you step
too close, and bam! your eyelashes
graze your pillowcase; but
not this time --

all that´s left is to accept the swallow
let go the toe hold

fall