Silent Film

Phillip Brown

In the dark box
of my bedroom at night
shadows drape the walls
with their velvet black.

The window across the room
flickers like an old movie screen
lit by the pale lamp of the moon.

The scene plays slowly,
the image slightly blurred
by a breeze:

a tree brooding alone
with a moth fluttering
inside its dark bones
like a tiny, winged heart.

Captivated, I stare
until my eyes burn,
and I lie down in the ambient light
of the film, still playing.