Heavy Blanket

By: Damen MacDougall

 

I wake three times, or just

the once – I can never tell

anymore the nature of what it is

I do in bed when my eyes

are closed.

Winter’s watery light has ceased

its trickling through

my windows, now stoppered by night.

Glancing at my brass chest –

here and there pitted

with blossoming rust –

the clock reads 6pm,

its digital display verdantly

admonishing.

I cast off my throw

and my comforter, my fingers

scrabbling for purchase on a third

that isn’t there – heavy

blanket – intangible, yet

physically felt.

Veiled still by that leaden presence

I rise – sighing – the blanket

whispering as it trails

across the floor, as if

in reply.

Darkness settles like dust

on the profusion of things

in my possession – my empty apartment

brims with things. Dust

settles on them like darkness, too.

I look at the clock – 5am.

I crawl into bed, still wrapped

in that blanket, piling on the comforter

and the throw for good measure.

I look once more at the clock

and think to try again

tomorrow.

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