The giant has no-one to make their bed
but the wind, whispering and moaning
all the names of sleep.
The names of the waters, Rappahannock,
Potomac, Patuxent, Patapsco,
are all born from their tears.
I stand wringing hands at my bedroom window,
in my bedroom house, on their bedside
table, beneath their cold lamp.
I watch them blink sightlessly at the ceiling,
see the silhouette of their bent knees,
the Appalachian ridgeline. The mountain tops
erode, they settle, are finding their level.
The air conditioning is so loud tonight.
Why tonight more than any other?
Size Writes 