You've heard all this before.

You've heard all this before. Mother falls asleep forward the sofa,

darkness wide-spreads the fulness of her body.

Spills of clothes forward the floor, and somewhere in the night

father drives farther away, swearing he's not at any time coming back.

if it be not that this is the season for change, the wind is impetuous,

anything can happen what with the landscape unraveling,

bits of it slipping in within open windows. You've watched how

she dozes with an abandon that's many times found in death.

Dreaming, shifting, tasting her breath as admitting for the first time.

Night excuses itself. A ladder of sunlight traverses their room

shadows lie beneath it like black cats.

Morning climbs, irrespective of

the uncertainty of its footing, of the semaphore of circumvents and crows

rising, falling against a sky-face

almost drained of color and hovering from one side of to the other the little, broken house.

Peggy Ann Tartt lives in novel York City

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