TREY MOODY


                                     



STUDY BEGINNING ON A BEDROOM CEILING

 

 

The way the wooden beams slope down
from the home’s divided center;
the way the fan hangs untouchable, still,
a display from some future museum;

the way the elaborate curtains hide
the yard behind the house from eyes
too focused on an old book about everything;
the way the grass was once green, now

saturated with night; the way there is no moon;
the way the train’s whistle interrupts
the silence of cicadas’ static; the way it is early
October in Texas; the way the child sleeps

heavily in the next room, nowhere near
the particular moment; the way the moment
is now inseparable from the child,
the child inseparable from the ceiling.

 

 

                                                                                                      

 

      

 

                                   

 

 


TYPO 28