The Telling

The Telling

The sound of night
is traffic at a distance
with the rustle
of covers and breathing.
A radio is set
for the news
when the British
spread their world
before them.
The sleepless
who toss and turn
try to find
a space not as lonely
as it always is.
For some there are tears
of recognition
or resignation
to the end of life,
painted with colors
that dim at sundown.
Many touch their skin
to find comforts
no one else will give
to lips limited by age,
now bitten to stem
the rage of memory.
Then, kisses were plentiful
as the photons
of street and star light
that beamed through a gap
in the curtains.
The bed was warmed
by the bodies of two
whose lips touched
by accident and plan
in the center of heaven.

Barry G. Wick