Poems from the Vault

There is just a small time passing,
Between waiting for the next day
And forgetting the last

A brief interlude, composed of a little noise
Shallow air that’s spoken only through cigarettes
And by light from under the door

And sometimes there’s a radio or a TV,
And sometimes a conversation
Dying along the windowpane

Yet usually for us it’s the same,
The few of us who witness,
Those who lie on beds and stare up at the ceiling
Who dream of earthquakes
And of wining the smallest of victories

Like falling asleep and not finding the same day
Waiting for us, at the end.

 

Author: jameskramerblog

James Kramer is a fiction writer currently based in Beijing.

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