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There is a moment every morning when
I hover, warm and senseless, palm to palm
with sleep and darkness. For three breaths I can
forget the square of earth I care for. Wrong

and calm in unhinged thought. I rise and dress,
limp down the stairs, go out the back, abide
a moment's sun. The grayhouse lock is flecked
with rust. The knob is cold. I push inside

the freezing box. Dead dirt is still the same.
Nothing grows, as long as I remain.


I blog irregularly at TinkerX. I'm also on Twitter. @andyhavens, go figure.

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The following comments are for "The Grayhouse"
by andyhavens

transcending enjambments
I enjoyed this offering. Just wish to let you know.

( Posted by: Bobby7L [Member] On: January 30, 2012 )

Thanks, Bobby!
Always appreciate the read. And I do love my enjambments (and slant rhymes) ;-)

( Posted by: andyhavens [Member] On: January 30, 2012 )

Good One Andy!
Another delightful read from you Andy.

Keep 'em coming!


( Posted by: Beatrice Boyle [Member] On: February 1, 2012 )

Pensive and darkly rich. I Liked this one - read it several times and it gets better on the tongue. Thanks

( Posted by: jonpenny [Member] On: February 26, 2012 )

mushroom musings
This puts me in mind of nothing so much as a mushroom shed, full of trays of dark, cool, enigmatic compost. A watched mushroom never sprouts, to paraphrase the proverb, but come back in the morning and you'll find that they have sprung up overnight.

Oh, and I very much like the line 'Wrong/and calm in unhinged thought.' Uhuh, that nails it.

( Posted by: mobiussoul [Member] On: March 4, 2012 )

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