Slats, like that.
     Sunlight and shade on a thigh
striped. Sight an orb,
     sphere glow at her back
through the blinds’ spaces.
     Beside, alongside of,
parallel perhaps. What is
     this room, this place
and another, overlap.
     Dream her grandmother, twist
the rod, let in more light
     or less. A sickroom angel
keeps watch through crevices
     cranked open by fever;
a cold spot, a shiver.
     Are we inside the zoetrope,
static, or outside, peering
     through thin slits?

Note on the Collaboration

This poem is from a series of ongoing Facebook poems. The basics are I post a prompt, FB friends post their immediate responses, and 24 hours later, I take the responses and turn them into a first draft of a poem. Sometimes I keep the posts’ wording, sometimes I use the ideas presented but not the actual words. It has been a lot of fun, and the sense of community when I write these drafts is wonderful.