We watch the fading back of darkness edge
away and feel the shrinking chill on flesh
which lies-or is it mouths?- in cooling air;
averse to moving from our rumpled bed.
No sound is heard except the whirring fan,
and silent still are sparrows in their nests.
The room, a host of Carnival last eve,
ascetic gray, the shading of a cell.
Our hands do not appear to be our own,
a steepled Rodin cast in bronze, until
mercifully a plane of lucent light
bestows a blush of rose back to our skin.
Relief is what we feel when night adjourns,
and spaces slip to right with dawn’s return.
© 2022 Nancy Sobanik
Photography © Sannah Kvist