Mark Cunningham

  

 

Second Story
 
Thread

 
  A maple leaf, newly unraveled
at the end of its branch, rides

and jolts in muscular gusts.
The pumping of your heart

keeps you awake.  Roof vents
whirl and whir.  You get up

to write another note.  A cloud
slides across the quarter moon.

Your eyes sag, heavy
as damp canvas.  Just before

your eyes close, a floor scrubber
late on her way home bends

and picks up a scrap of thread lying
in the exact outline of the cloud.

 


 

 


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