i lie inside
supine
pining
sunshine flooding through the blinds
wind gusts shaking the trees and house
insistent as loneliness
pounding its fists
against these fixtures
supine
pining
i lie
inside
sunshine flooding through the blinds
little private terrors
and the death of who i was
this is what i hear and see
in the wind gusts and blinding light
because a week before
i lay in the road
broken and bloodied
trying to stand as this whole new me
and then each morning after
i wake against pain and stiffness
and do not know yet this resurrection
cannot imagine this new life
a mangled little finger
a fractured hip
and all this talk of healing
as if healing is some kind of regaining
supine
pining
i lie
inside
sunshine flooding through the blinds
terrified of everything and everyone
because i alone know all
my sins of love
that temper my bones under my frail flesh
i cannot tell anyone everything
i cannot tell everyone anything that matters
because nothing is sacred or permanent
except knowing you warm and close
despite my premature decrepitude
spawned gradually and then all at once
you are unwavering in these storms
resuscitating me broken
supine
pining
i lie
inside
sunshine flooding through the blinds
—P.L. Thomas
Selected Poetry 