after soap bubbles

half-heard whispers
float from beneath
velvet curtains
and meander into my mind
where veiled thoughts
don't mean much
and cages hold more
than starving animals.


she's just sitting there
in her ancient,
creaking rocking chair,
waiting for the rain
to pull the heat from the earth
and the hurt from her bones
and the filmy powder
that covers everything
like snow-flavored dust.