a late hour
November 14, 2011 § 2 Comments
In another room a Canadian voice reads a much loved tale from a spinning CD, the daughter sleeps and the dog lies curled like a bean at the foot of the bed. In this room, the mover leans back in the chair feeling a curve of wood against her shoulder blades. She folds her arms against the softness of her belly, closes her eyes and notices the dry sting of tiredness. A clock ticks. The body breathes. Then, with the incoming tide of sleep, sensations begin to disolve.