The days are idle and scattered,
there are no blankets
and we don’t control our fate,

yet we sleep like babies.
You stand in the doorway,
heart easing.

Our dreams rain the chatter
of a thousand TVs;
the words circle every drain

and wind up elsewhere
but could pass through again–
the silence polluted and distilled.

Camped on its banks:
there are no fires,
and our flashlights
are out of batteries,
but it doesn’t matter.

The dancer walked
with the Baptist’s platter
and froze in a doorway to pray.

Day roars up like fire,
but night is cold.
We sleep like babies where we lay

Studied and dismissed.
Helpless, insane.
Bare cupboards, wind screaming,
bosses who bat us from
the borders of our own meaning.

Night flees backwards,
spreads like water.

Mirrored from inside and out.
Moon angled to siphon light
for the waves to spray
against glassy space:

we too could read
the gray words of shadows

as, in the doorway,
you lean to recognize our faces,
hear us breathe.


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