Washed up on murky tides of blood and pain,
From otherworldly, twilight deeps of visceral fear
Where squirming lampreys writhed in nightmare grip,
I ease uneasily into our bed.
I hear the distant, mournful howling of the train.
I trace the ghost-blue outline of your head
Against the streetlamp's glow; stroking your hip,
And drifting off, I nuzzle you behind your ear,
As gentle as the lightest summer rain.
Copyright by Ike Wassom, 2014. All rights reserved.