By Gwyneth Box
Sounds rise through plaster, wood and dust; they twist
between the ceiling joists, and round ceramic tiles to twine
with moonlight, drifting, woven in dreams, until
they filter into consciousness. Then,
there are no more dreams:
the sounds contract
to words as hard
and tight as fists that punch
into the sobbing night.
She hears the darkness
catch its breath
and a banshee wail
drags the dawn
closer.