In the orange-cast grey buzz kitchen
your light words clink together like glass beads--
the tension of the night is a taught string
through us from soft soil to the stars.
My throat trembles with the weight
of the words, that finally
spill out from my mouth like drops of rain:
and the words fall
"is the meaning of it all?
the thing that we're all moving towards?"
silence spins as answers are
measured, formed, examined, weighed--
I hardly dare breathe and break the dance.
Finally I chance a look
and that furtive glance reveals
your face wrapped loose
For that moment you are still
immobile as the kitchen clock--
its black hands are your breath.
your eyes shoot open
in a shock
I half expect you'll snap
stock straight and
scream free from a nightmare.
Instead you turn, your eyes scream-blue
the words brush sleepy, urgent past your lips:
"I dreamt that I was dreaming,
I mean I dreamt I was asleep.
I dreamt that I was dreaming
and I had to wake up,
I had to wake up.