It's Still Life

This Is Not the Whole Bone

One ear pressed
to the city’s ribs.
Asleep in the moment of almost:

almost safe,
almost seen,
almost loved,

before almost
swallowed me whole.

I curl into print,
a parody of rest,
and dream of
stars, not just holes
in a beggar’s blanket.

But here,
where shadows bend,
I keep count
of what refuses to end.

In this kingdom of almost,
I remain —
an unbroken
syllable of light.