My father was a somniloquist; he only talked to me in his sleep. Lured at night by his one-sided conversation one room over, I would escape the cot I'd grown out of, gaze at my sleeping mother, and ... [+]
me
one evening
in the city
of un-
known poets
we'll talk
not a word
of the turning
world
no
but win-
dows throw
open
and listen
to the unsung in
unison
beautifully
singing