Microcosms

By George Freek

MICROCOSMS 

Silence sits on my sofa
like a guest. 
On the wall a painting
with birds flying headless,
unable to find the sun,
is going to pieces.
In a corner a shadow
as long as a lizard’s tongue
catches flies
and spits them out again.
As I turn off the lamp,
a moth lights on my shoulder,
his wings like hands
folded in prayer.
He escapes into the darkness 
my shadow created,
to kill himself against a window.

George Freek’s poetry has recently appeared in The Ottawa Arts Review, Acumen, The Lake, The Whimsical Poet, Triggerfish and Torrid Literature.

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