The Walls Have Ears

This foetus form of disquieted love,

a precipice from which it is flung

I thought –

retracing footsteps swallowed in the carpet,

lifting my feet in quiet concert with, or between

gaps in a junior grade inquisition

Confession of first light

Beams creeping from under and around

a crack in a door, down the hall,

transfixing themselves across my position

Ears tuned to voice, vulnerability

seeps out while turning inward

Inducing urge or instinct overarching,

the need to protrude – to comfort,

to feel it yourself,

in lessening another’s pain

Lying so close – behind a door,

your darkness pierced by device-led portal

locked in hand, broadcasting sequestration

against one’s mocking torture,

into another’s comfort

Lapsing time shrinks the distance,

duly noting the reveal

while choking on the indictment

This is Saturday night

Matt Mauldin
12/2017
Santa Barbara, CA